A Song in the Night
by OperaLover
Summary: Beginning with a modified final lair scene from the 2004 movie, we follow Erik as he leaves the ruined Opera House. Will a Song in the Night be his salvation-- or his downfall?
1. Chapter 1

**A Song in the Night**

**Disclaimer: The characters of Erik and Christine are the creation of Gaston Leroux. My eternal thanks to him for doing so. All other characters who appear in this story are the products of my oft-times fevered brain... :-)**

Chapter One

"Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you—you are not alone." Christine slid the ring onto her finger and waded out into the water, stopping when she came face to face with Erik.

Going up on her tiptoes, she kissed him on the mouth then pulled back a few inches to judge his reaction. The look of utter surprise and shock on his face stunned her for a few seconds. Bravely, she reached up and touched his marred cheek, gently drawing him back to her for another kiss.

This time, Erik was a little more prepared for the sensation of her mouth on his, but not for the light, teasing touch of her tongue tracing over his lips. He gasped in surprise and her tongue slid inside his mouth. His mind whirling, absently he registered the sweet taste of her, and allowed his tongue to touch hers in return.

After a few seconds, he pulled back, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe. Staring deeply into her eyes he saw a myriad of emotions—hope, love, sadness. Heedless of the tears running down his own face, he wiped Christine's cheeks with the backs of his fingers. "Oh, Angel!" he whispered. Slowly he pulled her to him, pressing her head to his chest. He felt her arms go around him, and he nearly sobbed at the exquisite experience of being held by her.

The distant sounds of the approaching mob jerked him back to reality. Dropping the rope that held Raoul captive, he turned away. "Take him! Forget me—forget all of this!" He staggered away from them, going to sit on the swan bed and stare at the monkey music box as it played its tune.

Christine freed Raoul from the ropes and he pulled the boat loose from its mooring. "Get in—hurry!" His voice raspy from the pressure of the rope, he reached out to grab her elbow and help her into the boat.

"No, Raoul, wait. I—I have to do something. I'll be back in a moment," she said over her shoulder, disappearing into the depths of the grotto.

Hearing steps, Erik looked up, stunned to see Christine coming toward him. For an instant, hope flooded through him, and he said softly, "Christine, I love you!"

Slowly she walked to him, tears slipping down her cheeks. And I love you, her eyes told him, but not enough. Working the ornate ring off her finger, she laid it in the palm of his hand, closing his fingers over it. He looked up at her, tears running down his face. She wiped at his tears with her thumb then leaned down and kissed him, first on his marred cheek, then on his mouth. "Good-bye, Erik," she whispered, and was gone before he could blink.

On unsteady legs he rose and walked to the front of the grotto, in time to see the boat disappear around the corner. You alone can make my song take flight. But it's too late now, isn't it?

Without realizing it, Erik shoved the ring in his trouser pocket and picked up one of the heavy brass candlesticks. "Damn, damn, damn!" he raged, swinging the candlestick in time with the words. Glass shattered all around him; his boots crunched over the shards as he went to the last mirror.

It took two mighty strokes, but the glass finally gave way, revealing a passageway. Pausing, he took one last look at what had been his home for more years than he cared to remember. He started to go back for . . . For what? he asked himself tersely. There is nothing here that I want.

Three steps into the passageway and he activated the mechanism that sealed the opening behind him. Several more steps brought him to a slight incline. Erik stopped to take a deep breath. The sounds of the mob were muffled, but he could still hear the raucous noise as they destroyed his pipe organ. "Bloody bastards, the lot of them," he muttered.

Down the incline and fifteen yards, then a sharp right turn. He released the lock and pushed open the door to a small room. Once inside, he put his back against the door and shoved it closed. Suddenly, his legs gave way and he sagged to the floor. Pulling his knees up to his chin, he sat in the thick darkness, his breathing ragged and loud.

A small grate set high in the wall connected to a shaft, providing fresh air from outside, although from time to time Erik got a whiff of smoke. Eventually he got to his feet and felt his way across the room to the cot and the small table that stood next to it. Fumbling with a match, he lit the stub of a candle on the table before collapsing on the cot. "Can't stay here long," he mumbled. "Have to get away soon."

* * *

The shouts and the pounding of horses' hooves woke Veronique duPres from a sound sleep. Alarmed by the sounds, she reached for the robe at the foot of her bed, holding it in front of her as she went to the bay window of her apartment. People went running down the street, some in their nightclothes; others with trousers and coats pulled over them.

Veronique slid her arms into her robe and opened one of the windows, calling out to a man going past. "What has happened?" The cold January air made her gasp and clutch the top of her robe tightly around her throat. The wind caught a few strands of her bronze-colored hair and she brushed them aside.

The man paused long enough for her to notice that he carried a bucket in each hand. "Opéra Populaire is on fire," he grunted and hurried down the street.

Now Veronique could see the glow from the flames of the fire, about five blocks away. She jumped when she heard an explosion from the opera and hoped the wind was not blowing in the direction of her neighborhood. Another fire truck rounded the corner, its bell clanging madly, the horses' breath making white plumes in the air.

Silently she said a prayer for all those who worked at the opera, that they made it safely out of the building, and for those fighting the fire as well. Knowing she would be unable to go back to sleep, she took her cello from its case and sat down in the ladder back chair. Rosining the bow, she began to play a portion of the Brahms sonata she was working on for her lessons.

The haunting melody seemed to fit the mood of the night, and Veronique closed her eyes in concentration. Determined to play the Allegro Pìu Presto through without a mistake, she didn't hear the banging on the wall at first. When the disagreeable old woman in the next apartment finally yelled at her to stop making such a horrible racket, Veronique stopped mid-note. "Crabby old biddy," she muttered, sticking her tongue out at the wall.

The next afternoon, when M. Bertrand arrived to give her a cello lesson, she mentioned the fire to him. "Have you heard the news, Monsieur?" she asked as she arranged the chairs and her music stand. She made certain the music stand was a bit lower than she preferred; she towered over the elderly man but tried not to emphasize the fact.

"About the fire at the Populaire? Yes," he replied, taking off his coat and warming his hands at the fireplace. Alphonse Bertrand was the retired principal cellist of the Orchestre de la Société des Concerts du Conservatoire, and a friend of her late mother's. He shrugged. "It was bound to happen, sooner or later," he commented.

"Why, Monsieur? The building was not considered unsafe, was it? I thought it was the most modern building in the city," said Veronique as she raised the window shades to let in as much of the thin January sunlight as possible.

The rotund man gave her a sharp look. "Have you never heard of the Opera Ghost, ma fille?" When she shook her head, he continued, "I thought everyone in Paris knew of the Ghost. But I forget—you have been living here only for a short time." He sat on the small bench in front of the fireplace and stretched his feet toward the hearth. "I believe it was seven years ago or so, when the first note from the Ghost was delivered. He demanded that the entire cast of Il Barbiere di Siviglia be replaced, that none of them could sing in tune, much less act."

Veronique's green eyes widened and she sat next to her teacher. "The entire cast? Were they really that horrible?"

"You must remember, chérie, that much of what I tell you is hearsay, and some of it third-hand." Bertrand paused to remember, then went on, "If I recall correctly, the tenor and the baritone quit outright, but the mezzo adamantly refused to leave. Eventually, the Ghost's ruffled feathers were smoothed, and the production achieved modest success."

"But this was not the only time they received demands from him, was it?" Veronique frowned, thinking that she had indeed heard something about the Ghost and his infamous notes. But from whom?

Bertrand chuckled, "No, it was not. The manager finally realized that he must acquiesce on most things, in order to have any peace at all—and to avoid any accidents. To be fair, the Ghost's 'suggestions' were usually the correct choice. Then La Carlotta and her entourage came to the Populaire, and the opera was suddenly aflame with fire and brimstone, almost literally."

Veronique gave an unladylike snort. "La Carlotta—her, I know. She came into the millinery shop a few weeks ago, complaining loudly that the new hat she ordered was the wrong size. Not likely, when Mme. Juliette has had no other such complaints." Before M. Bertrand could reply, she exclaimed, "That is who was talking about the Ghost! La Carlotta!" Grimacing, the girl went on, "I can well imagine how she treats those at the opera house. What did the Ghost do to her? Something well deserved, I am certain."

"Oh, indeed." Bertrand smiled broadly, his blue eyes twinkling. "This I know as fact; I witnessed it myself a few months ago. I was waiting for my friend, M. Reyer, the conductor of the Populaire's orchestra. During a rehearsal for Hannibal, a section of scenery mysteriously fell, nearly striking La Carlotta as she was singing for the new managers. She fell to the floor to avoid being hit, and Sainte Mère, when she regained her feet . . ."

Grinning, Veronique murmured, "Bravo, Monsieur Ghost."

Bertrand chuckled, his thick white mustache twitching. "Bravo, indeed, for that woman's voice . . ." He shuddered in remembrance. "It raised the hair on the back of my neck, I'll tell you. Unfortunately, things escalated after that. During a performance of Il Muto, it was rumored that the Ghost killed one of the workers." Veronique gasped, and M. Bertrand nodded. "The workman's body fell from the flies with a noose around his neck, in any event." The retired cellist paused. "And then there was the business with the little soprano, Mlle. Daaé."

He said no more for several moments, until Veronique prompted him, "What about Mlle. Daaé?"

"Oh, some said the Ghost abducted her; some said she went with him willingly. She was missing for several hours, perhaps even overnight, and when she returned . . . More demands from the Ghost, and naturally, much speculation about where she had been. She refused to say." He plucked a piece of lint from his sleeve. "The performance last night was of the Ghost's opera, Don Juan Triumphant, in which he insisted Mlle. Daaé play the lead. Evidently, the managers set some kind of trap for him, which failed. He caused the great chandelier to fall, which, in turn, started the fire."

Veronique frowned, her expression troubled. "And what of the Ghost? Was he captured? Killed?"

M. Bertrand shrugged. "No one knows. Or if they do, they are not talking about it."


	2. Chapter 2

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: To anyone new to my work, any Erik that I write will resemble Gerard Butler in height, weight, eye color, etc. No wig necessary. I have dotted this story with words and phrases in French. If any readers would like me to include translations at the end of future chapters, please PM me. Also, my "training" in manuscript submission was to underline anything that would not appear in ordinary print. So any thoughts, words in French, etc., are underlined here.**

Chapter Two

Three days after the fire

Erik chewed the last crust of the stale bread and swallowed. In the event of such an emergency as the fire, he had stowed provisions in the small room—a few stubby candles, matches, water, bread and some dried fruit. In a carpetbag were three changes of clothing, a bar of soap, some frayed towels and a plain brown woolen cape.

"Wonder what time it is," he murmured, his voice seeming to echo off the stone walls of the room. After escaping the mob, he had fallen into a deep sleep and was unsure of what day it was, much less the time of day. He knew he must leave the opera house; for many reasons, it was no longer safe for him to remain there.

He had also consumed the last of his meager foodstuffs, and knew that he needed to find more to eat and a place to stay, and quickly. Pushing to his feet, he went to the opposite wall and pressed his thumb to the upper left-hand corner of the metal plate recessed in a small opening. At first the metal refused to budge. Erik cursed and leaned heavily on the plate. Finally, it moved a fraction of an inch, and he managed to wedge his fingertips into the opening.

"Open, damn you," he muttered, and pulled on the metal plate with what strength he had left. It gave suddenly and he staggered backward. Inside were two bags of coins and several bundles of 100-franc notes. He poured out a few coins and discovered some smaller franc-notes among the others; this he put into his trouser pocket. The rest of the money he stuffed into the carpetbag, hiding it under the clothing. He pulled out the cape and swung it over his shoulders.

Easing the door open, he glanced cautiously in both directions then berated himself. "Fool! No one else knows of these passageways." But he had lived too long watching over his shoulder to change his ways now, regardless of the situation.

After fifteen minutes of twists and turns, he arrived at an outside gate. Opening it a few inches, he gauged the shadows and decided it was late afternoon. He waited until the shadows grew a bit longer before he ventured from his hiding place.

When he judged that it was dark enough for him to move about safely, he pulled the hood of the cape over his head and left what remained of the Opéra Populaire. Keeping his back to the walls, he went down the alley and scanned the activity at the corner. As if you would know if anything were amiss, he scoffed to himself. Determined to act as though he knew where he was going, Erik headed down the street. He passed several cafés, the enticing aromas emanating from them making his stomach growl loudly.

After going a few blocks further, he went past a pub, a boulangerie where he stopped to purchase a loaf of bread and a flagon of wine, and finally came to a small park. It was almost fully dark now, and the lamplighters had begun their work. Setting his carpetbag down, Erik slumped on a bench and tore a chunk off his bread. He chewed slowly, savoring the taste, wishing absently for a pat of butter.

The rumblings in his belly momentarily quelled after consuming half the bread and all the wine, he leaned his head back and stared up at the clear night sky. I must find a place to live, he mused, laughing at himself when he realized he had no idea in what part of the city he was. A voice from behind him startled him and he jumped.

"Pardonnez-moi, monsieur, but if you remain here, the gendarmes will make you move."

Erik squinted in the sudden light from the lamp as the lamplighter climbed down from a pole a few feet away. "And where might I find a place to stay, monsieur?" he asked.

"Madame Tremaine, over on the Rue du Becque, has a rooming house. Nice lady, but she doesn't take kindly to anyone who tries to take advantage of her." The lamplighter stared at Erik's face and shook his head. "Damned war," he muttered, "and damn the people who got us into it."

Choosing to ignore the man's comment, Erik inquired, "Where is the Rue du Becque? I'm afraid I'm not familiar with this part of the city."

"Two streets that way, and then go four blocks south," said the lamplighter, motioning with his head in the direction from which Erik had come. "Tell Madame Tremaine that Dumond sent you. She'll fix you up."

"Merci, M. Dumond," Erik told him and picked up his bag and his bread. Thirty minutes later, he stood before a somewhat rundown building, his heart pounding. You need a place to sleep, at least for tonight, imbécile, he told himself. Knock on the door and be done with it!

He lifted the tarnished brass door knocker, fashioned in the shape of a lion, and let it fall. After a long moment, a gray-haired woman of average height answered. "Oui, monsieur? How may I help you?"

Erik had to swallow past the lump of fear in his throat before he could speak. "You are Madame Tremaine?" he asked, his voice raspy. At her nod, he continued, "M. Dumond sent me. He said—he said you might have a room to rent, Madame?"

"Mais oui," she replied with a tiny smile. "Please, come in out of the cold wind, monsieur." Holding the door open, she stepped back and motioned for him to enter. As soon as she closed the door behind him, a huge orange tabby appeared out of nowhere and began to rub against Erik's legs.

Mme. Tremaine bent down and scooped the cat into her arms. "Bah, Samson, you sneaky devil! Escaped from the kitchen again, eh?" With a glance at Erik, she added, "I hope you like cats, monsieur. Samson here is but one of many, I am afraid."

"I have not been around animals that much," murmured Erik. He held a hand out to Samson, who promptly began to lick the back, his tongue rasping against Erik's knuckles.

"Bien!" laughed Mme. Tremaine. "If you have gained Samson's approval— that is good enough for me." She led the way down the hall and into the kitchen, where the cat immediately insisted on being put on the floor. "Please, sit down. Let us talk about the arrangements here."

Erik held a chair out for her at the table, earning a quizzical look from her. Folding her hands together on top of the table, she began. "I have only one room vacant at the moment, monsieur . . ." Her voice trailed away in question.

"Devereaux," said Erik, picking a name out of thin air.

"As I said, I have only one room vacant, M. Devereaux, and it is but a tiny room on the third floor, hardly more than a closet, actually."

"Does it have a window, Madame Tremaine?" asked Erik quickly. "I require little more than a bed and a window, in all honesty." He stifled a curse when a different cat, a small gray tabby, jumped into his lap. "Pardon, Madame, but just how many cats do you have?"

She smiled as the little gray cat curled up in his lap and began to purr loudly. "Four that actually come in and spend some time here," she replied. "Samson, who you met earlier; Marguerite is the one in your lap. Then there is Faust, who is solid black—not coincidentally— and lastly, Delilah, who is mostly white, with some orange and black."

Inwardly Erik flinched at the names Faust and Marguerite. "Faust and Marguerite, eh? I take it you like the opera, madame." Sacré bleu! If she frequented the Populaire . . .

Mme. Tremaine shrugged. "I was only able to attend once," she said sadly. "But, yes, I did love it—every wonderful moment." A far-away look came into her eyes. "It was during my honeymoon, to Venice, many years ago," she murmured. After a long moment she sighed. "Bien, let us go and look at this tiny room, M. Devereaux, and see if it will suit you."

Tucked under the eaves, it suited him quite well, and Erik paid her for the entire week. Something about the old house seemed familiar to him, but he was too tired to think about it. As he lay back on the bed, his hands stacked under his head, he stared out the window, scarcely able to believe he was not in his lair. Just as he drifted off to sleep, he thought he heard music.

* * *

"Merde alors!" muttered Veronique as she closed her apartment door behind her. It had been a very difficult day at the millinery shop and she was tired to the point of exhaustion. With a jerk, she removed the pins that held her hat in place, and she tossed it down, not caring for the moment where it landed. "Oh, that Carlotta will be the death of me!"

A sound drew her attention to the bay window, and immediately her anger and irritation sloughed away. Sitting outside on the ledge was the big orange cat she'd seen around the neighborhood. Apparently he had deigned to grace Veronique with his presence tonight, and he batted a paw against the window glass. "Bien, I am coming, M. le Chat," she said with a smile.

She opened the window and he jumped down gracefully, swishing his bushy tail to and fro. "And where have you been, mon ami?" she asked as she stooped and picked him up. A butt of his head against her chin and a soft 'mreow' were the only reply. "Oh, such a scoundrel you are," she murmured, "and I am certain I am not the only one whom you visit, eh?"

Hefting him a bit, Veronique continued, "Well, it appears that you do not need anything to eat." The cat gave her a baleful look at that, and she laughed. "Ah, do not think you are going to wheedle anything out of me, chat gros. I will be dining on bread and cheese tonight—I am too tired to cook."

She bent down and let him jump to the floor. As she went into the small kitchen, he followed right on her heels and made himself at home under the tiny table. She continued to talk to him, telling him about her day and the episode with La Carlotta. "I am amazed that I did not slap the stupid woman," muttered Veronique as she took out a loaf of bread and cut three thick slices. She pointed her knife at the cat and said, "And I am not altogether certain I will not the next time she shows her face in the shop."

Taking out a wedge of Camembert, she spread some on the bread, and took a smaller dollop for the cat. "Here, mon ami, a little something for you." She held it out to him on the tips of her fingers and he bounded from underneath the table, snatching it from her like he was starving. Veronique chuckled, before turning back to the cabinet and pulling out a tin plate and a small mug.

When she had finished her simple meal, she found the cat sitting in the bay window. "Oh, so you are ready to leave now, eh?" she said to him, running her hand down his broad back. He arched under her touch, but continued staring out the window. "All right, go on and meet all your lady friends."

She left the window cracked open and went to her cello. After tuning it, she began to play a lively folk tune from Bourgogne. It had been her papa's favorite, and her most cherished memory of him involved riding on his shoulders and listening to him whistling this tune. He had died when Veronique was five, but she remembered his vivid blue eyes and wide smile.

Once her hands were limber, she began to work on the piece M. Bertrand had given her for her next lesson, but found she couldn't concentrate enough. "Bah! Enough of this," she grumbled. Seemingly of their own volition, her fingers began to play the soothing notes of Pachelbel's Canon in D.

Veronique closed her eyes, seeing in her mind cloudless blue skies and fields of grain waving in the breeze. She smiled faintly, her daydreams adding a handsome dark-haired man to the scene, who held her hand as they walked.

When she finished, one hand went to the small gold cross on a chain at her throat. It had belonged to her maman, a wedding present from her papa. Softly she began to play Schubert's setting of the Ave Maria, ignoring the tears that slid down her cheeks. When she finished, she put away her cello and made her way tiredly to the bedroom. Veronique fell asleep as soon as she lay down, a shaft of moonlight across her face.


	3. Chapter 3

**A Song in the Night**

Chapter Three

Erik woke the next morning with a shaft of sunlight streaming across his face. He shaded his eyes with his hand and sat up, dislodging the carpetbag from the bed as he did. Giving his head a little shake to clear it, he stood and stretched, idly scratching his chest through his shirt.

I must find a job today, he told himself, or at least go looking for one. He did not dwell on the fact that he had no idea where to go or whom to ask about finding work. At that moment his stomach growled loudly, and the smell of fresh coffee wafted its way up from the kitchen. He shook his head in disgust. He had been so concerned about a place to sleep that he had forgotten to ask Mme. Tremaine if meals were included in the price of his room.

"First things first," he murmured, and pulled a clean shirt, underclothes, and a pair of trousers from his bag. Opening the door, he peered to the left, saw a door ajar and through it, what appeared to be a small water closet. He took his clean clothing with him and padded down the hallway to inspect the facilities.

Several minutes later he returned to his room to find the little cat from last night, Marguerite, curled up on his bed. She opened one eye when he entered, but immediately went back to sleep. Erik sighed. "Pardonnez-moi, Mademoiselle, for disturbing you, but I do not wish to be sleeping with the fleas tonight," he murmured as he slid his hand under her and lifted her up to eye-level. She swatted at his nose with one paw and he gave her a crooked grin.

Stooping, he set her on the floor and nudged her out the door with his foot. He inspected the spot where she had been lying and saw no tiny creatures on the stark white sheet. He tucked his shirt into his trousers and tugged on his boots, wondering what time it was. "I need to buy myself a watch," he said, and headed to the kitchen.

Mme. Tremaine sat at the table enjoying a cup of coffee and looked up when Erik approached. "Bonjour, M. Devereaux," she said, motioning for him to join her. "I realized after I retired last night that we did not discuss some very important things in regard to your room here." Gesturing to the cupboard behind her, she continued, "Mugs are on the first shelf. Help yourself to some coffee."

Erik sat across the table from her as he had the night before, savoring the aroma of the hot liquid in his mug. He took a careful sip, and felt the heat go all the way down to his belly. "Merveilleux, Madame," he sighed, saluting her with his mug. "Yes, when I smelled the coffee this morning, I realized that I had been more tired than I thought last night and was not paying enough attention to details."

"Meals are available in the morning and the evening for an extra two francs per week," she told him. "Breakfast is served at seven; dinner is at seven in the evening. Please be prompt; if you are late, well . . ." She shrugged. "If I did not set limitations and hold to them, I would be in the kitchen twenty-four hours a day."

"I quite understand, Madame." Erik took another drink of coffee. "Are we permitted to have food in our rooms?"

"No," she replied. "I have found it best to keep all foodstuffs in the kitchen. Mon Dieu, the battle against insects is difficult enough as it is. On another note, laundry is not a service that I provide here. There is a woman a few blocks away who does a very good job and does not over-charge."

Erik set down his mug and nodded. "Merci, Madame, I will be certain to get her name from you." He glanced away, then back at her. "Do you have a place where I might lock up some . . . valuables, Madame?"

Giselle Tremaine shook her head. "I am sorry, but no. Each room has its own key, and I have a copy, but I carry them with me at all times. Most of the people here have nothing worth stealing. If you believe that you do, then you should take whatever it is to the bank."

"Again, merci, Madame. I will do that, at the first opportunity. I have several other tasks that I must accomplish today as well." He stood and carried his mug to the sink, where he pumped some water and rinsed it before setting on the sideboard. "I will bring you the money for my meals for this week, and get the key for my room. I will be here promptly at seven this evening." He made a brief bow and left the kitchen.

A short time later Erik let himself out the front door, pulling the hood of his cape up over his head as meager protection against the cold wind. His first stop would be to purchase a small watch then he would locate a bank and open an account. Luckily, he had used another name for his deposits as the Opera Ghost.

He passed a pawn shop and stopped to look in the window. Seeing a small gold watch lying on a scrap of blue velvet in the front of display, he entered the shop and asked to look at it. Erik tuned out the shopkeeper as he droned on and on about how accurate the timepiece was. "How much?" asked Erik abruptly, cutting the man off mid-word.

"Uh, fi-five francs," stammered the shopkeeper. Erik fished a 5-franc coin out of his pocket and flipped it to him. Glancing at the large clock sitting behind the counter, he set the time on the watch and wound the stem several times. He held it to his ear, and satisfied with the sound he heard, nodded at the shopkeeper and walked out.

As he passed the pawn shop window again, he noticed the violin. His breath caught and he stopped, oblivious to the annoyed looks of the people who were forced to walk around him on the sidewalk. After a moment, he turned and strode away. That is better left for another time, he told himself. Not yet.

A few shops down the street, a small boy came bursting out the door, nearly knocking Erik off his feet. Hot on the lad's heels was a tall, slender young woman dressed in a white blouse and a navy blue skirt. "Come back here, you little voleur," she cried.

The boy darted around Erik and was swallowed up in the crowd. "Merde!" the girl muttered under her breath. Seeing Erik's quizzical look, she dropped her eyes and pink tinged her cheeks. "Pardonnez-moi, Monsieur, I know I should be more careful with my language. But, could you not have stopped him?" Her voice broke on the last word.

"Why, Mademoiselle? What did he steal?" Hoping to avoid an emotional scene, Erik made his voice deep and soothing. The girl seemed on the verge of tears, her green eyes huge in her oval face.

"My . . . my reticule," she whispered. "Madame had just given me my wages, and I laid it aside when a customer came in." A strand of her long bronze hair came loose from its bun and blew across her eyes. She brushed it aside absently, biting her lip.

Erik frowned, considering the consequences of what he was about to do. "And how much money was in your reticule, Mademoiselle?" he asked, his tone still comforting.

"Al-almost twenty francs," she replied, her voice quivering. "All that I have earned since I began working here."

How do you know she's telling the truth? a voice in his head chided him. They could be in on it together, plotting to steal as much as they can from the unsuspecting.

En voilà assez! Erik told the voice. Certainly it will not be the first time I have been played for a fool in the last few days. He reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a 10-franc coin. "Here, Mademoiselle," he said, offering the money to her.

"But—but I do not know you, Monsieur! And you do not know me! How shall I repay you? No, I cannot accept . . ." Her voice trailed away when he scowled at her.

The girl's questions seemed to echo the voice in his head, which irritated Erik immensely. "Do not concern yourself with that, Mademoiselle. You will repay me when you can, n'est-ce pas?" She nodded and he gave her a tiny smile. "Then it is settled. Bonjour, Mademoiselle." Turning on his heel, he walked away without another word.

Veronique stared after him, her mouth agape. Only then did it register that the right side of his face had been badly damaged, most likely burned in the war. But that did nothing to diminish the handsomeness of the rest of his face, nor the beauty of his sea-green eyes. And his voice . . . The timbre of his voice was just like her cello—

Someone tapped her on the shoulder and she jumped. Turning, she saw that it was Marthe, the other girl who worked in the shop. "Veronique, come quickly! Madame is calling for you," Marthe told her, "and she doesn't sound pleased."

Veronique tried to watch the man as he wove his way down the street, but soon the throng of people enveloped him and he disappeared. Reluctantly, she allowed Marthe to lead her back into the millinery shop.

Oblivious to the people around him, Erik stalked down the street, valiantly trying to ignore the annoying little voice in his head. Enough! In a few weeks I will stop at the shop and ask the girl if she has my money. That will have to suffice. The shops began to appear more prosperous and a little better cared for now. He scanned both sides of the street for a bank. Seeing none, he wrapped his cape more tightly around himself and continued walking.

A colorful sign caught his notice and he stopped to read the paper tacked up next to a patisserie. "Workers needed—inquire at Le Théâtre du Monde, L'Avenue des Fleurs," he read softly. Entering the pastry shop, he asked the woman behind the counter, "Madame, I am newly arrived in the city and saw the sign outside for workers. In which direction is L' Avenue des Fleurs?"

The tired-looking woman didn't reply at first and just as Erik opened his mouth to repeat the question, she said, "It's ten blocks south of here, Monsieur." She eyed him speculatively then shook her head. "Foolish, irrational men and their stupid wars," she muttered. Giving him a wan smile, she added, "Bonne chance, Monsieur."

Erik gave her a brief nod of thanks and left. At this rate, I'm going to wear out my boots, he mused. And I still must find a bank. Or perhaps that could wait until tomorrow. But no longer than tomorrow—I need to get my money in a safe place soon.

And you need to take care and not spend more than is absolutely necessary until you have a job, the irritating voice in his head snapped. No more gifts to girls who claim to have been robbed!

By the time he had walked the ten blocks to L'Avenue des Fleurs, he no longer felt the bite of the wind. Stopping to look in both directions, he chose to turn left. There seemed to be a great deal of activity down the street, and there he hoped he would find the theatre.

For once, luck was with him, and he joined the long queue of men standing in front of the building. He glanced up as he waited, mentally comparing it to the Populaire. The structure was on a much smaller scale, and looked a bit plain to his eye, and a touch careworn. I hope to become friends with you, Madame, he told the building silently.

"Quiet!" The word shattered his daydreams and plunged Erik back to reality. The crowd around him fell into a silence of sorts, and the man who stood on a small table waved his arms for their attention. "Sorry, messieurs," he continued, "but we have all the workers we need for the moment. Come back in a few weeks."

Angry voices filled the air with curses, and raised fists shook warningly at the man who had spoken. A few of the men closest to the front of the crowd surged forward, and Erik turned away, unwilling to watch another angry mob at work. He fought his way back down the street in the direction he'd come, wincing as he felt a blister forming on his left heel.

Soon the crowd thinned out and Erik found himself walking through a small park. Gratefully, he sank down on a bench and tried to ignore the throbbing in his foot. So think, man, he ordered himself. You know most of the theatres in the city. Where is the closest one to Mme. Tremaine's?

His mind refused to cooperate; suddenly the aftereffects of the past few days caught up with him and he slumped on the seat. What does it matter? he thought tiredly. Eventually you will spend all the money you brought with you, then like so many others, you will have to resort to begging. Closing his eyes, he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his chin on his chest.

Memories long repressed swarmed to the surface—of the cage, the beatings, the laughter from both the spectators and the Gypsies. . . Of strangling his captor, of Suzanne Giry helping him escape and then hiding him in the opera house . . . Of . . . Christine . . .

"No!" Erik whispered fiercely. His hands clenched and he shuddered with anger. "No! I will not regress to that . . . creature that I once was. I—will—not!" Surging to his feet, he retraced his steps to L'Avenue des Fleurs and then headed back toward the rooming house.

The longer he walked, the worse the pain in his foot became. By the time he reached Mme. Tremaine's, he was limping heavily. Breathing hard, he made his way up the stairs to his tiny room. He unlocked the door and fell inside, collapsing on the bed. Discarding his cape, he propped his left foot on his right knee and carefully eased off his boot. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from crying out, dismayed at the blood on his stocking. Suddenly exhausted, he lay back on the bed and closed his eyes.

The next thing he knew, something raspy was scraping along his chin. Opening his eyes a little, he saw the small gray cat sitting on his chest. She began to purr and slowly he reached out and ran his hand down her back. From the hallway on the first floor, he heard the clock strike seven times. Quickly he sat up, grimacing as his foot began to throb again. The little cat scampered away as Erik took a breath and shoved his foot back into his boot, determined not to miss dinner.

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he made his way downstairs, pausing in the doorway of the dining room. Three men, a young woman with a small child, and Mme. Tremaine glanced up from the table. The aromas coming from the dishes made his stomach contract almost painfully, and he moved as quickly as he could to the only empty chair, to the right of Mme. Tremaine.

"M. Devereaux, allow me to present Messieurs Montaigne, Chermont, and Duchesne." Each man nodded in turn as Mme. Tremaine continued, "And this is my daughter Elisabeth and my grandson, André." Erik murmured a brief greeting and sat down, managing to swallow back a moan at the relief of pressure on his foot. He felt sweat beading on his upper lip and tried to wipe it away as unobtrusively as possible.

How he made it through the meal, he never knew. Between the incessant throbbing in his foot and the stares of the little boy, Erik began to wonder if this was not a tremendous mistake. Forsaking the promised dessert of chocolate cake, he limped back up to his room and fell face down on his bed.

**A/N:** I renew my offer to provide translations for the French, if anyone would like... :-)


	4. Chapter 4

**A Song in the Night **

Chapter Four

Giselle Tremaine frowned as M. Devereaux excused himself and left the table. From the corner of her eye she watched as he limped out of the room. She had noticed the perspiration on his upper lip and wondered at its cause. A couple of times during the meal she had caught André staring and had nudged the boy's foot, hoping to distract his attention away from M. Devereaux's scars.

As soon as the other lodgers had finished eating, she and Elisabeth cleared the table and began washing the dishes. "You are worried about him, aren't you, Maman?" her daughter murmured as she scrubbed the iron skillet.

"Yes," answered Giselle thoughtfully, "and I am not certain why. Something about him just . . ." Her voice trailed away and she stared out the small window above the sink.

Taking her hands from the dishwater, Elisabeth dried them on her apron and slid an arm around her mother's shoulders. "I know, Maman. He reminds me of Guillaume, too." She thought about her younger brother, killed in the war, and her eyes filled with tears. Blinking them away, she continued, "Then perhaps you should go upstairs and look in on M. Devereaux. He did not look well to me, either."

Giselle considered her daughter's words for several long moments. Then she shook her head. "No, he is a grown man; he will have to take care of himself. This is a boarding house, not a hospital or charity ward." They finished washing the dishes in silence.

The next morning, M. Devereaux did not come to breakfast, and Giselle began to question her decision of the night before. As soon as the others had left the table, she went into the kitchen and gathered her cleaning supplies. "If you should need me for anything," she told her daughter, "I will be on the third floor."

Stopping to catch her breath at the top of the stairs, she refused to look in the direction of M. Devereaux's room. I cannot afford to take in all the poor and unfortunate souls in Paris! she told her conscience determinedly. He is an adult, well capable of caring for himself.

As she cleaned the small water closet, she heard a loud thump from the room down the hall. Her conscience paid no heed to her admonitions this time, and she went to discover the reason for the noise.

The door stood open a few inches; through the gap she could see M. Devereaux sitting on the floor next to the bed. A bewildered look crossed his face, as if he could not remember how he came to be there. "Monsieur?" said Giselle. "How are you feeling this morning? You did not look well last night."

Slowly he lifted his head and looked at her. From the unnatural brightness in his eyes, she knew he had the beginnings of a fever. "Monsieur?" she said again.

He reached out and braced himself on the edge of the bed, getting to his knees. When he put his weight on his left foot, he winced visibly but made no sound of pain. Finally he straightened to his full height and gave her a wan smile. "Merci, Madame, I am quite well."

Clucking her tongue at his obvious lie, Giselle replied, "You have missed breakfast, Monsieur. But I believe that there might be some coffee left." Turning, she added over her shoulder, "I should be finished cleaning the water closet in a few minutes."

Dismayed, Erik looked down and saw that he had slept in his clothes. He felt the dried perspiration on his body and grimaced. Fumbling in his carpetbag, he pulled out clean clothing and sank back down on the bed to wait until Mme. Tremaine had gone downstairs. Sacré bleu! I barely remember returning here yesterday afternoon. I must have passed out. His head felt as though it was filled with cotton, and his mouth was like dust.

Thirty minutes later, he made his way slowly down to the kitchen. Mme. Tremaine was just setting the coffee pot on the stove when he entered. "It will be several minutes before this pot brews," she said by way of a greeting, and Erik sank into the nearest chair.

"Merci, Madame," he said hoarsely, "but I do not seem to have an appetite this morning. I believe I will simply have a glass of water." He stood, swayed and grabbed the edge of the table. Limping to the sink, he pumped some water into a glass and drank it down without stopping. Carefully he turned and went back to the table, but did not sit down.

"You mentioned the woman nearby who does laundry, Madame. May I ask her name and address? I have some clothing that needs to be laundered." He frowned when Mme. Tremaine shook her head. "Pardon?"

"One would think I would be used to the foolishness of men at my age," she muttered. "By all means, Monsieur, go out in the cold and the wind when you obviously have injured your foot and possibly have a fever. It is of no consequence to me. The name of the laundress is Mme. Gilbert; go three blocks north and then three blocks west. The number of her house is 113."

Puzzled by her remarks, Erik thanked her and left the kitchen. He gathered his clothing and began his errand. It took him an hour to walk to Mme. Gilbert's and an hour to return to the rooming house. Twice on the way back, his stomach tried to betray him, but being that it was empty, he merely retched dryly. It appears Mme. Tremaine was correct, that annoying little voice in his head taunted him. You are ill. Erik ignored it, saving his energy to climb the front steps and enter the house.

Laboriously he climbed up to his room, and again fell face down on the bed. As if from a great distance he felt the small thump when Marguerite leaped onto the bed next to him. He tried to turn over but could not summon the strength. With a sigh, he let his head drop back down on the mattress, and the sound of the little cat's purr lulled him to sleep.

* * *

"Grand-mère!" André spoke in an urgent whisper. "M. Devereaux will not wake up!"

"And what were you doing in his room, young man?" Giselle frowned at her grandson.

He scuffed his toe on the carpet, refusing to meet her eyes. "I—I was looking for Marguerite, and—and I saw her on his bed and went to get her, and . . ."

Firmly, Giselle grasped the boy's chin and forced him to look at her. "You know you are not to go into the other rooms, André." Sighing, she stood and put her knitting aside. "Bien. I will go and look in on him." She went into the small pantry and retrieved her special basket, which contained several small brown bottles and jars, some clean rags, a pair of tweezers, and other items necessary for dealing with minor injuries and fevers.

The door to his tiny room was ajar, and through the opening Giselle could see him lying on the bed. Tsking under her breath at the thought of his dirty boots on her sheets, she pushed the door open and prepared to upbraid him for his carelessness. Then he moaned.

"M. Devereaux!" she said anxiously, "are you all right?" When he did not reply, she set down her basket and touched him on the shoulder. He flinched and reared up, his green eyes confused, his face flushed. Having treated countless fevers while helping nurse the wounded during the war, she knew he did not recognize her and most likely, did not know where he was.

Quickly she grabbed a cloth from her basket and went to the water closet. Soaking it in cold water, she hurried back to his room, alarmed to find him face-down again on the bed. "M. Devereaux," she said, her voice crooning, "let me help you."

Erik tried to move; when he lifted his head and looked at her, she still saw no recognition in his gaze. With great effort he pushed himself up and Giselle grasped one arm. "That's it," she murmured, "first we need to turn you over onto your back." Taking his shoulders, she helped him into a sitting position. "Now, lie back," she urged him softly, "yes, that's a good boy."

A faint smile crossed his face and he whispered, "Maman?" The smile slid away and his eyes closed in relief when she placed the cold cloth on his forehead. His hand grasped her wrist with surprising strength and his eyes shot open. He stared up at her, his face contorted with grief. "Please, Maman," he begged, "please don't die! Don't leave me alone with these people!"

"Shh, it's all right, mon chéri," whispered Giselle, "I won't leave you. I promise." She cupped his cheek gently and he leaned into her touch, much like her cats. Her heart ached for the poor child that he must have been. "One more thing, chéri," she said. "Help me remove your coat—you'll be more comfortable without it."

Mechanically, he leaned forward and held out his arms to her; she pulled one coat sleeve down and then the other. Tossing the garment aside, she took hold of his right foot and finally managed to remove his boot. When she lifted his left foot, he moaned and thrashed on the bed, trying to pull away. Sternly, Giselle said, "Lie still!"

"Hurts," he whimpered.

"And it will hurt all the more if you fight me," she retorted. "Relax your leg, and it will be over before you know it." Softly she began to hum Frère Jacques, hoping it would distract him a little. "Sing with me, chéri," she said, frantically trying to remember if he had told her his Christian name.

After a moment he began to sing, and her mouth dropped open in amazement. His voice was extraordinary; for an instant she wondered if he had been employed at the Populaire and had been injured in the fire. No, his scars are too well healed for that. Before she allowed herself to become enthralled with his singing, she gave his left boot a mighty tug and pulled it off.

He cried out then fell silent. Giselle bent over his chest and listened for his heartbeat. Merci a le bon Dieu, he has simply fainted, she thought. Her movements brisk, she removed his stocking, clucking her tongue at the large, bloody sore on the heel of his foot. "Homme niais," she muttered. "What did you do today, walk through the entire city?"

Daring to leave him for a few minutes, she ran down to the kitchen and returned with a basin and a kettle filled with hot water. Quickly, she washed her hands with carbolic soap, then the wound, and dried it with a square of cloth from her basket. Next she pulled a jar from the basket and opened it. "Bah," she muttered, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "If I did not know how well this salve works, I would never tolerate the odor!"

Erik's foot twitched as she held it and spread the pungent salve on the wound, and she said softly, "Yes, I know it stings. But it will help you heal quickly." She wrapped his ankle and foot in a long strip of cloth, fastening it with a safety pin. Rolling up an extra blanket, Giselle gently propped his foot on it. "C'est celui," she sighed.

Leaning over him, she saw that the cloth she had placed on his forehead had fallen off. She touched the back of her hand to his cheeks, frowning when she realized how warm he was. "I am not certain whether I should feel sorry for you or be angry for bringing this on yourself," she said. "As long as I live, I will never understand men."

Giselle picked up the basin she had used to wash his wound and went to the water closet to rinse it and fill it with cold water. Returning to his room, she put several cloths in the water and let them soak. "I hope this will pass quickly, for your sake and mine," she told him as she wrung out a cloth and put it on his brow.

Erik jerked awake at the touch of the cold fabric on his skin, his eyes snapping open. They appeared more lucid than earlier, and Giselle spoke softly. "M. Devereaux? Do you know who I am?"

His brow furrowed heavily, but before he could answer, his eyes slid shut again. Sighing, Giselle plucked another cloth from the basin and began wiping his neck and chest. When she had finished, she found an old quilt in the linen closet in the water closet and wrapped it around him as best she could.

* * *

Feet dragging, Veronique climbed the front stairs of her apartment building. It took three attempts before she managed to get the key into the lock. For a moment she stood, staring stupidly at the doorknob. "Turn the key, Veronique," she muttered. "You cannot get inside unless you turn the key."

Once inside her apartment, she staggered back against the door and pushed it closed. Her movements jerky, she dropped her reticule and reached up to remove her hat. You had better sit down before you fall, a voice in her head taunted her. Blindly obeying the voice, she threaded her way across the room and collapsed onto the small sofa.

How long she sat there, staring into space, she did not know. Only when the big orange tom cat appeared on her windowsill did she become aware of her surroundings. Meowing plaintively, he tapped on the glass. Veronique struggled to her feet and went to open the window. She scooped him up in her arms before he had a chance to jump to the floor. "Oh, mon chèr ami, how glad I am to see you!" she whispered.

Burying her face in his warm fur, she burst into tears.


	5. Chapter 5

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: I have taken a bit of 'poetic license' with Erik's background beginning in this chapter and continuing throughout the story. It is not my intent to offend anyone by doing so. My only orientation to his character has been from the ALW 2004 movie. I do not believe that there is only one interpretation of the character. My motto is firmly: To each his own... **

Chapter Five

The big orange cat tolerated being held so tightly and cried upon for only a few moments before he squirmed and began to fuss. With a shaky laugh, Veronique set him on the floor. "Pardon, mon ami," she said as he whipped his tail angrily. "I hope your life has been better than mine for the last two days," she continued, her voice thick with tears.

Stomping over to the sofa, the cat leaped up onto the seat and made himself comfortable. Veronique followed him and sat down an arm's length away. She scratched him behind his ears and his loud rumbling purr soon filled the room. His eyes nearly closed, he gave her a resigned look, as if to say, All right, you won't be happy until you tell me all about it, so talk.

"When Maman died and I moved here," said Veronique softly, "I thought I would have enough money to last until I could find a job playing music. But everything is so expensive here! Not like in Auxerre. So I took a job at a millinery shop—and now I may lose it! Madame told me yesterday that if there is one more complaint about me, she will have to let me go. I tried to explain to her that I ran out after that little cochon who stole my reticule, but she wouldn't listen."

The cat thumped his tail, as though he were thinking, Is that all? It could be much worse, you know.

Veronique lay on her side, her chin propped in the palm of her hand, idly petting the cat with her other hand as she talked. "And when I ran outside, there was this man. The boy almost knocked him down. He probably could have stopped the boy, but he let the little voleur get away." She fell silent for a few moments, then said softly, "Sainte Mère, his voice! When he asked me what had happened . . . It sent shivers up my spine, chéri. So smooth and cultured and . . . lyrical."

After another pause, she said, "I really do not think that I like working in the shop, but I do not want to be penniless, either. Maman warned me years ago that I must always be polite, and smile at the customers, even when I feel like scratching their eyes out. I would do much better if I did not have to deal with people so much." Sighing, she mused, "I would rather work in the back and help with the sewing, but Maman told me I have ten thumbs when it comes to needles and thread."

Standing, the cat arched its back in a leisurely stretch, making Veronique laugh in spite of herself. "Well, I can see that I have thoroughly bored you with my troubles, mon ami. Pardonnez-moi for wasting your valuable time." He butted her chin with his head and she dropped a quick kiss between his ears. "Merci, chèr ami, for listening," she whispered.

He jumped to the floor and sashayed into the kitchen, in what she thought was a blatant hint for something to eat. Smiling to herself, she followed him, leaning against the counter as he sat in the middle of the floor, staring up at where she kept her cheese.

"Well, I suppose I do need to eat something," she murmured. Reaching for the loaf of bread, she cut off a couple of slices. "But, in case something happens and I lose my job, we cannot be extravagant," she added. "So no cheese tonight, chéri; I'm sorry. Just bread and some dried fruit."

Oh, to be able to afford a nice, plump chicken! thought Veronique as she ate her sparse meal. Her mouth watered at the idea, and the cat meowed plaintively from near her feet, as though he knew what she was thinking. That made her laugh out loud. "Oh, no, chat gros," she chuckled. "You cannot fool me. I know someone else is feeding you, and quite well, too, by the look of you."

When he realized that no food that he wanted would be forthcoming, the big cat insisted she open the bay window for him. Once he had slipped out into the night, she leaned her forehead on the glass and sighed. I'm sorry, Maman. I'm not doing very well at taking care of myself, Veronique thought morosely. Tears filled her eyes and angrily she blinked them away. "No," she said determinedly. "I will think of something. I will not give up."

She took out her cello and sat down in the ladder back chair. Testing the tuning, she made several legato bow strokes. The sound that came from the instrument reminded her immediately of the stranger's voice, and her heart gave a thump. His money is even more important now than yesterday, she mused. I must spend it very, very carefully.

Playing a few scales and short phrases, she warmed up her fingers and began working on the piece M. Bertrand had assigned her for her next lesson. After a few moments, she stopped playing and frowned. "How does the next part go? I cannot remember!" Huffing out a breath in disgust, she stood and went to the small secrétaire in the corner.

The sheet music was on the top of the desk, and Veronique snatched it up and returned to her chair. "You have wanted this since you heard that concert at the Abbey of Saint-Germain when you were five," she reminded herself. "You will not succeed if you do not practice. Forget about the millinery shop, forget about the cat, forget about . . . the stranger—concentrate only on the music."

Dutifully, for almost an hour she worked on the piece by Franz Joseph Haydn, until she felt satisfied with her progress. Laying her cello in its case, she stretched her arms above her head with a soft groan. She shivered and glanced toward the window. "Bah! No wonder it is freezing in here!" she muttered. After securing the window, she hurried to the fireplace and sat on the hearth, tucking her skirts carefully around her.

Unerringly, her mind returned to the problem of her job. "I should make a list of my expenses," she murmured. "I must be practical—no extravagances of any kind." With a sigh she rose and went to the desk, rummaging for a scrap of paper and a pencil.

Grabbing a book to use as a writing surface, she sank back down on the hearth.

Rent was first on the list, then food. Under food she listed bread, cheese, milk, fruit, and meat. Next to each item she wrote how much she had spent on them in the past week. When she added up the figures, Veronique grimaced. "Sacré bleu! Either I must stop eating, or I must find another place to live."

Putting her list aside, she wrapped her arms around her raised knees and stared into the flames. Slowly her eyes drifted shut and she dozed. In her dreams she saw the stranger who had given her the money. He was holding out his hand to her, smiling, saying . . . something. With a jerk, she woke. "Hélas, only in your dreams, Veronique," she whispered.

* * *

With great effort, Erik opened his eyes. Something kept pulling at his . . . toes? Slowly he raised his head and looked down at his feet. The left one was wrapped in a bandage, with only his toes visible, and the little gray cat sat there, steadily licking on his big toe. From time to time her tongue would catch on the fabric, which accounted for the pulling sensation. The room seemed to spin and he let his head fall back onto the pillow with a soft moan.

He tried to speak, but managed only to cough harshly several times. Mme. Tremaine came through the door of his room with a small tray, which she set on the drop-leaf table across the room. Without speaking, she poured a glass of water and brought it to him. When he tried to take it from her, his hand shook visibly, and Giselle said, "Allow me, Monsieur. You have had a fever for two days."

After taking a couple of sips of water, he turned his head and she removed the glass. "Two days?" he croaked. His entire body ached, and his throat felt as though he had swallowed his woolen cloak. When he tried to sit up, cold chills washed down his spine and immediately he lay still, willing them away.

"Yes," replied Giselle, "and I fear you are not completely recovered. You gave me quite a scare the first night, Monsieur, I must say." She paused. "Usually I do not ask such a thing, but . . . after what we have been through, I feel as though we are more than acquaintances. What is your Christian name?"

He had to clear his throat twice before he managed to answer. "It is Erik, Madame." A moment of silence passed before he asked, "Did I . . . I know that people often talk of things better left unsaid when they are feverish, Madame. If I said anything offensive, I humbly beg your pardon."

She offered him the glass of water again, and he took several more sips before indicating he'd had enough. Taking a seat at the foot of the bed, she gave the little cat a scratch under the chin. "There were times when you spoke, mostly in a language I could not understand," she told him. "Other times . . . you believed I was your maman, and you begged me not to die and leave you alone."

Erik closed his eyes at that, and felt again the almost overwhelming despair that had haunted him for years. "She died when I was six," he whispered. "She sang me to sleep every night, until she was unable to do so. And when that happened . . . I sang to her."

"Ah, that explains it, then," said Giselle softly. At Erik's confused look, she explained, "At other times while you were delirious, you would sing." She flashed him a wide smile. "You sang me a couple of bawdy saloon songs, and some of Je crois entendre encore. You have a beautiful voice. Have you ever sung professionally?"

"No, I have not," he answered. "I was born with this face, Madame."

A thick silence filled the room to overflowing after his terse statement. Finally Giselle cleared her throat. "Pardonnez-moi, M. Devereaux. That was unspeakably rude of me. I did not mean to pry, and it appears I have done so."

"And one would think, after having lived with it for more than thirty years, that I would be used to it," murmured Erik. After a moment, he raised his eyes to her. "Why? Why did you take care of me, Madame? I am no one to you, just a boarder in your house."

Biting her lip, Giselle closed her eyes for a moment. "You reminded me of my son, Guillaume. He . . . he was killed in the war." She opened her eyes and gave him a tiny, sad smile. "A mother's foolishness, I suppose." After a moment, she continued, "You may call me Giselle, if you like."

"Never apologize for that 'foolishness', Madame—Giselle. Often, it is the only thing that sustains us."

She nodded and got to her feet. "I believe a little warm chicken broth might be in order, Erik. It will ease your throat and put a little food in your belly at the same time." At the door she turned and gave him a stern look. "Under no circumstances are you to try to get out of that bed unassisted. Even for . . ."

Her cheeks became tinged with pink, and Erik felt the strange urge to laugh. "I give you my word, Madame. I will not try," he said solemnly.

He scooted down a little and pulled the blanket up to his chin. Suddenly exhausted, he closed his eyes and let sleep begin to overtake him. I must ask her about the music I heard, he thought.

A couple of hours later he woke with a jerk, startling himself and Marguerite, who had curled up next to his hip. He had been dreaming of his mother, something he had not done for years. Stretching out his hand, Erik stroked down the back of the little cat, and she inched a little closer. As if he had been talking to animals all his life, he told her about his mother.

"Maman was a singer, a contralto, and a very talented one, chaton. She told me that my grandfather was a highly respected teacher at the Conservatoire. Her parents disowned her when she married my father, someone who they thought was an undesirable match, a penniless writer. Not long after they were married, my father was killed in an accident. Maman did not discover she was carrying me until a few weeks later."

A noise in the hallway made him stop, and seconds later Giselle came through the door with a bowl of fragrant broth and a spoon. Erik's stomach growled loudly and they both chuckled. "I hope I will be able to enjoy at least some of that," he said.

She pulled a chair up next to the bed and dipped the spoon into the bowl. Leaning close to him, she held the spoon to his mouth. "You may need to blow on it to cool it a bit," she said. "I . . . heard you talking to Marguerite as I was coming down the hall. Please, continue, if you wish. I promise that whatever you say will not be repeated."

For a long moment he stared at her then opened his mouth for the spoonful of broth. It was hot, but it tasted so good that he did not care that it scalded his tongue a little. He swallowed and obediently opened his mouth for the next one. After several more bites, he shook his head. "Merci, Giselle. That was wonderful. But I fear I need to rest for a moment."

"Here, let me get you a drink of water." Setting the bowl aside, Giselle rose and poured some water in the glass she had brought up earlier. She held it for him and he took several sips.

He laid his head back and closed his eyes, his hand automatically going to Marguerite. She began to purr and he smiled faintly. "There is not much more to tell, truthfully. Maman came back to Paris, worked as a seamstress and I was born. We lived in different places . . ." His voice trailed away and he frowned. "Sacré bleu! That is why this house seemed familiar that first night. Maman and I lived here until she got sick and couldn't work. I—I used to love to come to this room and stare out at the stars."

"You were happy here, for a while, at least?" At Erik's nod she patted him on the shoulder. "I hope it will be a happy place for you again." She picked up the bowl and was almost out the door when he spoke again.

"Giselle? Who was playing music?"

"Music?" she echoed. "Why, no one. None of us here can sing or play a note, except you, Erik. When did you hear music?"

Frowning, he tried to remember. "Perhaps I merely dreamed it," he said. "But it seemed so real . . ." It _was_ real! One of Haydn's cello _concerti._

capital of the Yonne department of Bourgogne, between Paris and Dijon.


	6. Chapter 6

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: A bit more of Veronique's background here. She has only recently lost her mother, to clarify for one reviewer. :-) Also, in the previous chapter, my apologies if I confused anyone with the sentence below the end of the chapter. It was supposed to be a bit of explanation about Veronique's hometown, but something 'got lost in translation'...**

Chapter Six

Erik napped off and on the rest of the day, and Elisabeth brought him a tray in the evening with more savory broth and a slice of bread. He insisted on feeding himself, and managed not to make a mess.

As he was eating, Elisabeth told him a little about her son, André. "He started attending school in the autumn and he simply hates it. Over and over he has said that he does not understand why he must learn all these stupid things," she sighed. "I have tried to explain to him, and so has Maman, that he will never become successful if he cannot read and write and do sums."

"Perhaps you should just give him a little more time to become accustomed to it," murmured Erik. "Pardon, Madame, but I must . . ." He felt his cheeks burn and knew it was not the fever returning.

"Oh!" Elisabeth blushed and helped him move the bedcovers aside. "I think if you put your arm around my shoulders, Monsieur; that would be best." Seeing him frown at the nightshirt he wore, she added, "It was my papa's. Maman thought it would make caring for you a little easier."

Slowly they made their way down the short hall to the water closet. Bracing himself against the wall, Erik went inside and closed the door. When he had finished, he emerged to find an anxious Elisabeth right outside. "I am more than ready to go back to bed," he told her. "I loathe being sick and weak, but I have learned my lesson and will not push my luck."

"Maman will be quite happy to hear that," said Elisabeth, just as André dashed up the stairs, calling for her. "What is it now?" she asked the boy when he skidded to a stop in front of them.

"I cannot find Marguerite!" her son cried. "Grand-mère thought she might be up here with M. Devereaux." Without asking, he slid his arm around Erik's waist and helped support him the rest of the way to his room. "Is she here, Monsieur?"

Sighing with relief when he sat down on the bed, Erik looked around the room. "No, André, I have not seen her since your grand-mère was here earlier today. I do not know where she might have gone."

The boy gave the room a cursory glance and walked away, muttering. Just then Erik felt something soft brush his bare ankle from under the bed. Saying nothing, he waited until he was settled in bed and Elisabeth had gone before he said softly, "It is safe now, ma chaton; you can come out."

* * *

"Do you think it is safe to enter?" whispered Marthe. She and Veronique stood outside the millinery shop's back door late the next morning, listening intently as La Carlotta threw yet another of her infamous tantrums. Marthe's eyes were huge and she wrung her hands, flinching when the diva screeched at Mme. Juliette, the owner of the shop.

Veronique bit her lip, wincing as something crashed to the floor. "Perhaps we should wait a little longer," she said, fervently hoping the singer would leave very soon. I do not need to have another encounter with her right now, not when my position is in jeopardy.

Both girls jumped when they heard the front door slam into the wall and La Carlotta's spate of angry Italian spewed through the opening. They jumped anew when Mme. Juliette appeared in the back door and ordered them inside.

"Marthe, you go to the front and straighten whatever might need it. You, Veronique, will follow me." With that, she marched down the hallway, and Veronique meekly trailed behind her.

"Well, my girl, what do you have to say for yourself?" the shop owner demanded, once they were inside her tiny office.

"Pardon, Madame, but I do not understand. What do I have to say about what?" Veronique knotted her fingers together to keep them from trembling.

"About the way you treated one of my best customers, that's what! Signora Giudicelli said you were unspeakably rude to her the last time she was here." Mme. Juliette stared at her pointedly.

"Ha! If she thinks that was rude, she's in for a very uncomfortable surprise one day soon," retorted Veronique. As soon as the words popped out of her mouth, she knew her job in the shop had just ended, and she thought, I might as well tell her what I truly think! "That woman is nothing but a spoiled brat who desperately needs a good spanking. I only wish I could be the one to give it to her."

Squaring her shoulders, she continued, "And before you inform me that my services here are no longer required, Madame, I will tell you that I am leaving your employ, immediately!" Veronique turned and stormed out, the heat of her anger carrying her several blocks before she realized she didn't know where she was. For a moment she stood, her head bowed, blinking back tears of frustration. She jumped when a voice spoke to her from a few feet away.

"Pardon, Mademoiselle, but may I help you?"

Veronique looked up in surprise, as an older woman came out of the house and down the stairs toward her. She was carrying the big orange cat that had been visiting Veronique. "I am sorry," the woman continued, "but you seemed . . . lost. I thought perhaps I could point you in the right direction."

"Merci, Madame. Yes, I am lost, I fear. I haven't lived in the city for very long, and I have not strayed much from the one route that I knew to my job." Reaching out, she rubbed the big cat under his chin, and he rewarded her with a loud purr.

Nodding, the woman said, "Let us go inside and have a cup of tea. You look chilled to the bone, chérie." As they went up the stairs, she added, "My name is Giselle Tremaine."

"I am Veronique duPres, Madame." She held the door open for Giselle and shivered just a bit at the warmth that enveloped her once they were inside. When she was seated in the warm kitchen, Samson claimed Veronique's lap. Shifting him a bit so his back claws didn't dig in quite so much, she asked, "Is this your cat, Madame?"

Giselle chuckled. "Ooh, la, as much as anyone's, I suppose. Samson generally looks out for himself. Why do you ask, chérie?" She set the kettle on the stove and pulled two mugs from the cupboard. As an afterthought, she took down another mug. Erik would like some tea, no doubt.

"He has been visiting me; just last night, as a matter of fact," replied the girl, once again shifting the cat's bulk to a more comfortable position. "I could tell that someone has been feeding him, so I have tried not to. But," she sighed, "he can be most persuasive."

And from the look of you, you are not eating enough, ma fille, thought Giselle sadly. Aloud, she asked, "Where do you live, Veronique? You mentioned that you had not been living in Paris for very long." By now the kettle had begun to sing and Giselle poured the water into the teapot and set it on the table to steep. From a wooden box she brought out a couple of croissants left over from breakfast.

Samson's head popped up when she carried the flaky rolls to the table, but Giselle simply said, "No," quite firmly. Setting the plate and a mug in front of Veronique, she said, "Eat up, child. No sense wasting good food."

The warmth of the tea seemed to go all the way to her toes, and Veronique sighed appreciatively. She took another sip and then set the mug down, moving her thumb around the edge of the handle. "I live on the Rue des Chevaliers, Madame, which I believe is only a few blocks from here. But I do not know in which direction." She picked up one croissant and nibbled on the edge, trying not to appear too hungry.

Giselle nodded. "Yes, it is four blocks east of here, chérie. And where do you work?" She saw a flash of anger in the girl's eyes.

"Until this morning, I worked at Mme. Juliette's modiste shop." Her voice flat, she added, "Madame fired me for being rude to a customer, a woman who would not recognize rude behavior unless one slapped her." Veronique shrugged. "I suppose my anger at being fired made me careless, and I did not pay attention to where I was going."

"And now you need to find another position," murmured Giselle. "What are your interests, child, if I may inquire?"

Veronique blew out a deep breath. "I love music, and play the cello. I am taking lessons from M. Alphonse Bertrand, who was the principal cellist of the Orchestre de la Société des Concerts du Conservatoire. And who was also a childhood friend of my maman." She paused to take another sip of her tea, and a tiny bite of croissant. "I want—I want to play in an orchestra, or a chamber music group. But . . . usually women are not allowed to do this."

"So, until you can accomplish this, you would like to do something that involves music, n'est-ce pas?" Frowning, Giselle tried to think of an occupation involving music where women would not be discouraged. "Perhaps you could work for an instrument maker, or as a piano tuner's assistant? Do you sing, or play the piano?" Veronique shook her head and the older woman sighed. "You do present a challenge, ma chérie."

Erik heard the murmur of female voices and wondered with whom Giselle was speaking. He knew that Elisabeth had gone to run some errands for her mother. Chafing at still being confined to bed, he gingerly turned over on his side and grumbled about over-protective women. "I will never regain my strength if I continue to lie here and do nothing," he said to Marguerite as she lay at his feet, industriously cleaning her face.

A few minutes passed and he threw back the blankets, drawing an irritated 'mrow' from the cat. "Enough of this, chaton," he muttered. "Nothing ventured, nothing gained." Slowly he moved his legs over the side of the bed. When the room did not begin to spin sickeningly, as it had done just yesterday, he allowed a tiny smile of victory to cross his face. Bracing one hand on the wall, he eased himself off the bed.

His knees wobbled and nearly gave way, but he caught the doorframe with his other hand and steadied himself. "Just to the window, chérie, that's all the farther I wish to go," he said, taking a deep breath.

It took him fifteen minutes to cross the tiny room, but he made it to the window, leaning his forehead against the cool glass gratefully. Looking down at the window sill, he rubbed his thumb over the initials carved there. Childishly crooked, they brought a melancholy smile to his face: C for Catharine and E for Erik. Oh, Maman! We were happy here, weren't we? I wish I could remember all the songs you sang to me.

Giselle found him there a half hour later, after she had sent Veronique off with the leftover croissants and a promise to visit again soon. Staring out the window at the gloomy January day, he did not hear her approach—or so she thought.

"I know," he sighed without turning around, "I should not be out of bed. But I simply could not lie there a moment longer without going insane."

A noncommittal "hmm" was Giselle's only reply. She set the tray down on the table and tugged on the sleeve of his nightshirt to get him to turn and face her. Pressing the back of her hand to his cheeks and forehead, she smiled when she found no evidence of fever. "How long have you been standing here?" she asked, taking note of the near-normal color of his face.

"Long enough, I believe," he murmured, and slowly began to walk back to the bed. Once he seated himself on the edge Giselle helped him swing his legs up.

"Let me check your foot," she said, and unfastened the bandage she had put there last night. The blister wound was healing nicely and she told him, "I think we ought to leave it open, to get some air. But be careful—be sure you keep it dry." She stood at the end of the bed and gave him a stern look. "Now, I suppose since you have gotten yourself out of bed, you will want to dress yourself.

"And have something to eat besides broth," Erik said quickly. She nodded her agreement and he went on, "I heard you talking with someone earlier." He made it sound more like a question than a statement.

Instead of answering, Giselle busied herself pouring him a cup of tea. She handed it to him and he took it with a nod of thanks. "Yes, a young woman who had gotten lost. I noticed her standing on the sidewalk and invited her to come in for a little tea and sympathy." Shaking her head, she sat down on the bed. "The poor child," she murmured. "She had just lost her job."

His heart took a funny little leap, and he wondered if perhaps, by some strange coincidence, it was the girl to whom he had given the money. "Somehow, I imagine that you gave her some food before she left here," he said, smiling to himself when Giselle didn't deny it. "Your heart is as big as all Paris, Giselle Tremaine. You cannot fool me," Erik teased her.

His landlady merely shrugged. "No matter how old a woman becomes, how tired, how used up by life she may be, if she has children, she will always be a mother. That fact does not change, and it matters not who she is mothering." She fell silent, thinking about the poor young woman she hoped she had helped today, and the man who lay in the bed in front of her.

"Well, I cannot spend all afternoon up here chatting—I have work to do, if you expect to have something to eat for dinner tonight." She stood and walked to the door, pausing just before she left the room. "The girl who had gotten lost? As it so happens, she lives just a few blocks away . . . and she plays the cello."

I knew it! thought Erik exultantly, grinning madly after Giselle had gone. I knew I heard music. Marguerite jumped up next to him and he scooped her up with a soft laugh, pressing a kiss between her ears. "I knew it, chaton," he murmured. "Perhaps I am not crazy after all."


	7. Chapter 7

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: A small homage to another of my favorite roles of Gerard Butler appears in this chapter... :-) Those of you who have read my author profile know that I love classical music-- I have tried to keep the references to a minimum, for readers who may not share the same enthusiasm... Please, if I get too "technical", let me know...**

Chapter Seven

Veronique trudged toward her apartment on leaden feet, gratefully carrying the croissants Mme. Tremaine had given her. Well? her conscience demanded. What are you going to do now?

"First, I am going to go home and cry," muttered Veronique. "Then I suppose I'll do whatever comes next." She lowered her head against the wind and tried to concentrate simply on putting one foot in front of the other. At least I won't have to kowtow to La Carlotta anymore, she thought angrily. That woman truly is enough to try the patience of a saint!

A wicked smile crossed her face as she remembered M. Bertrand's account of the scenery falling and nearly hitting the obnoxious diva. Bravo, M. Ghost! I do so wish I could have seen it. Too bad she got out of the way in time.

Luckily, when she arrived at her apartment, her landlady was nowhere to be seen. Veronique locked her door and put the croissants in the kitchen. Wearily she took off her coat and dropped onto the sofa, laying her head on the back. The chain with her mother's gold cross on it pulled slightly across her throat and she reached up to move it. Her fingers automatically went around the cross and she whispered, "Oh, Sainte Mère, what am I going to do?"

The tears came then, slowly at first, and she wiped them away with the tips of her fingers. Soon the tears gave way to soft sobs and she buried her face in the frayed cushions of the sofa.

When she had cried away most of her frustration and hurt, she sat up and wiped her face on the sleeve of her blouse. She smiled faintly, hearing her maman's voice in her head, saying that all crying accomplished was to give one a red, stuffy nose. "All right," she murmured, "I need to think about this calmly." Pushing to her feet, she began to pace the small room.

"Working in another shop like that is my last choice," she decided. "I simply do not get along well enough with people." Pausing in front of the window, she looked in the direction of Mme. Tremaine's house. "She suggested . . . working for an instrument maker," Veronique whispered, excitement suddenly filling her.

She whirled around and went to the secrètaire, searching for a blank sheet of paper. Dipping a quill in the inkwell, she started a letter to M. Bertrand. But after writing the salutation, she stopped, trying to rein in her racing thoughts. Finally, with her ideas organized into what she hoped was a coherent letter, she scratched it out and sat back to read over it one last time.

"Dear M. Bertrand, I find it necessary to seek other employment here in Paris, and would very much like to find a position that involves music in some way. A friend has suggested trying to find something with an instrument maker. Do you by chance know any of the violin makers in Paris? I await your reply most anxiously. Your student, Veronique duPres."

Taking a deep breath, she folded the paper and sealed it, then wrote M. Bertrand's name and address in Auxerre on the outside. "I must post this the very first thing in the morning," she vowed, believing with all her heart that this was indeed the right path. Perhaps by the time of my next lesson, I will have a new job!

Just then someone pounded on her apartment door. "Are you in there, you silly girl?" her landlady shouted.

Veronique's heart sank. She had put the old woman off the last time she'd come about the rent; this time there would be no reprieve. "One moment, Madame," she replied. Fumbling with her reticule, she went to the door and opened it. "How much?" she asked, deciding to be as blunt as the old crone always was with her.

Her landlady squinted at her then said, "For last time and this, fifteen francs."

Hoping her outrage didn't show on her face, Veronique counted out the amount into the woman's palm. Before the landlady could say anything else, Veronique shut the door. Greedy old biddy, she thought. Waiting until she heard the other woman walk away, she went to the sofa and dumped out the contents of her reticule. "That took fifteen francs I could not afford to spend all at once," she muttered.

Quickly she counted her remaining money—including the stranger's ten franc-note, and the little she had left from the sale of the contents of her home in Auxerre, she had approximately seventy francs to her name. "Sainte Mère, pray for me," she whispered. "I need that job immediately!"

The next day it poured rain all day long, and Veronique loathed the thought of venturing outside, since she had lost her umbrella when she moved to the city. Her letter to M. Bertrand lay languishing on her desk, and she cast several irritated glances at the window as she paced. She tried practicing, but could not concentrate.

Late in the afternoon, the sun peeked through the clouds and she dashed out to post her letter. Almost skipping with excitement, she headed down the street to Mme. Tremaine's. Waiting for someone to answer her knock, she had second thoughts about showing up unannounced. "But she did say I could come to visit at any time," Veronique reminded herself.

A little boy about six years old opened the door a crack, just far enough for her to see two huge blue-green eyes staring at her. "Bonjour, Monsieur," she said politely. "Is Mme. Tremaine here?"

"What do you want with her?" asked the boy, a little belligerently. At that moment, a young woman came up behind him and swatted his backside.

"André Marek!" she exclaimed. "What do you mean, asking the young lady a question like that?" To Veronique she said, "Please, accept my apologies. My son has not learned the correct way to answer the door, obviously. Maman is in the kitchen."

Biting her lip to keep from smiling, Veronique followed them down the hallway. Madame was bustling around preparing dinner, but when she saw Veronique, she smiled broadly and wiped her hands on her apron. "Welcome, child! Come and sit down. Samson has been fairly pining away for you."

At the mention of his name, the big orange cat appeared and leaped immediately into her lap. "He does not seem to have lost any weight, pining away for me," said Veronique teasingly. The delicious aromas of roasting beef and potatoes made her stomach growl loudly, reminding her that she had not eaten since breakfast.

* * *

Still confined to his room, but allowed to get out of bed and dress, Erik inhaled the mouth-watering smells wafting up from the kitchen and groaned in appreciation. Yet another of so many things I used to take for granted, he mused. He glanced out the small window at the darkening sky. At least it has stopped raining. Tomorrow I must persuade Giselle that I am well enough to go out. I have to get to a bank as soon as possible.

Just before seven, Giselle brought him a tray, which he took from her and set on the small table. He frowned slightly at the meager contents of the plate—two thin slices of beef covered in brown gravy, a medium-sized potato, half of a carrot, a slice of bread and a small pot of tea tucked into a napkin. He opened his mouth to complain, but seeing the look in her eye, thought better of it. "An invalid's portion," he muttered under his breath, sitting on an up-turned wooden box.

"Yes," retorted his landlady immediately, "because you are still recovering." She turned to leave, then stopped and turned back to him. "Oh, by the way, Elisabeth retrieved your laundry from Mme. Gilbert yesterday. You owe me two francs. I'll bring it up to you later. Or if you prefer, you can return the tray when you're finished, and get it then."

Erik swallowed a mouthful of beef, and moaned softly. Seeing Giselle's look of concern, he wiped his mouth and said, "It has been a very long time since I have tasted anything so wonderful. I'll bring the tray down later, and get my clothes." He picked up the bread and tore off a corner, dragging it through the gravy.

"Just don't eat too fast," she warned him. "I don't want to have another mess to clean up."

Realizing he was gobbling the food, he laid down his fork and poured a cup of tea. "I promise," he told her. "Thank you, Giselle, for everything you have done for me. Somehow I will find a way to repay you, I swear."

She gave him a wink. "Sing again for me some time."

When he came downstairs later with the tray, Giselle stood at the front door, bidding someone adieu, extracting a pledge to visit again soon. Erik went to the kitchen, deposited his dishes in the sink and put the tray on the table, not knowing where it was kept. Pulling out a chair, he sat down, and within seconds, Marguerite came into the room and claimed his lap. A bundle wrapped in brown paper lay on the table; he peeled back one corner and recognized his clothing.

"Oh, Erik! I was hoping you would come down before she left. I wanted to introduce you to her." Giselle bustled into the kitchen and went immediately to the sink, rolling up her sleeves and pumping water into a stewpot.

He rose and took the pot from her, putting it on the stove to heat. "Introduce me to whom?" he asked warily.

"The girl I told you about, the one who got lost—the one who plays the cello," she told him as she scraped plates and stacked them to be washed. "She dropped by to visit and I persuaded her to stay and eat dinner with us."

Not knowing how to respond, Erik plucked a dish towel from a nail by the sink and stood ready to dry the dishes. He shrugged at her quizzical look. "It is the very least I can do for you tonight," he murmured.

"Bien." She returned his shrug with one of her own. "Set them on the table when you finish and I will put them away later." Adding warm water to the sink from the pot on the stove, she began to scrub the plates. "Oh, this gravy has set like cement," she muttered. "These plates will need to soak for a bit. Look in the bottom of that cabinet. There should be another large pot—I'll put them in it."

Erik brought her the pot and poured warm water over the dishes. He set it on the back of the stove and they finished the mugs and cutlery quickly. Having poured water in her Dutch oven earlier, after dishing up the gravy, it came clean quickly, and joined the pot on the back of the stove to finish drying. All the while Giselle chattered on about this and that, and Erik felt his head begin to throb slightly.

He had never been so glad to see a small child in his life as when André came bounding into the kitchen, talking madly about their walk to the girl's apartment and back.

"She has a huge fiddle, Grand-mère! Except she called it a . . . a ch- "

"A cello," Elisabeth said, as she trailed along in his wake. "Here, Monsieur, let me take that," she continued, tugging the dishcloth from his hands. "You look a little pale."

"Merci," murmured Erik, gladly surrendering the cloth to her. "Pardon, Mesdames, but I fear I have overdone it a little. With your kind permission, I will go back to my room." Picking up the brown paper bundle, he escaped from the kitchen and the continued prattling of André.

Pausing on the stairs to let Marguerite scamper ahead of him, he summoned the strength to go the rest of the way. Once inside his room, he closed the door and went to stand in front of the window. Cold air seeped around the frame and he crossed his arms over his chest to ward off the chill. Leaning his forehead against the glass, he smiled as he remembered the boy's description of the cello.

Then he heard it. Faintly, to be sure, but he closed his eyes for a moment and concentrated on the sounds. Yes, there it was. Opening the window a couple of inches, he leaned down, hoping he would be able to hear it better. The wind was blowing slightly from the east, and he heard enough to recognize the piece. It was the Schubert Ave Maria; softly he began to sing the Latin text.

* * *

Veronique smiled as she rosined her bow and tuned her cello. How wide André's eyes had become when he saw it, she thought, limbering up her fingers with a few scales and snippets of songs. Her papa's favorite folk song was followed by a bit of Haydn and Mozart, before she stopped to flex her fingers.

Realizing she did not feel like practicing the piece for her lesson, instead she played whatever came to mind. Some Beethoven, a portion of a Vivaldi concerto, some Bach all flowed from her cello without a pause between the melodies. She yawned suddenly, the events of this day and the previous one taking a toll on her. "One more song," she murmured, and began the Schubert Ave Maria.

Having memorized the selection as a surprise for her mother a few months after she began studying, her fingers went automatically to the correct position on the strings and her right arm seemed to move of its own volition. As she began the reprise, goose bumps ran up her spine. Playing pianissimo, she strained to hear the voice she thought she had heard singing. She stopped playing completely and closed her eyes in concentration. It sounded . . . it sounded almost like the stranger's voice. But it as suddenly as it came, it disappeared.

* * *

"No!" whispered Erik. "Don't stop now!" He sat down heavily on the upturned box. Please don't stop now.


	8. Chapter 8

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: A thousand pardons... I have been horribly remiss in thanking those who helped me during the writing of Erik and Veronique's story-- HD, Lizzy, Princess Wendy and Kate-- hugs and smooches to you all... :-)**

Chapter Eight

Erik woke bleary-eyed the next morning, after spending the night tossing and turning in his bed and getting little sleep. Feeling on the top of the upturned box next to the bed, he found his watch and saw that he had barely enough time to wash and get downstairs for breakfast. He pulled his newly-laundered clothes from the bundle and went to the water closet.

The mouth-watering smell of coffee encouraged him to hurry, and he made it downstairs just in time. Sliding into the only empty chair at the table, he smiled and murmured, "Bonjour, Mesdames," to Giselle and Elisabeth.

Giselle nodded at him and sternly warned André to take only one pancake. "When you have eaten that one, you may have another," she said, setting the platter of food, still steaming, in the center of the table.

The clink of cutlery against plates discouraged any real conversation, for which Erik was grateful. He still did not feel comfortable enough with the other boarders for small talk over a meal. Within twenty minutes the others had finished and left the table, leaving Erik sitting with Giselle, Elisabeth and André.

"Stop dawdling, André," said Elisabeth as she stood and picked up her plate. "You must get ready for school."

"Oh, Maman, do I have to go again today?" His tone nearly a whine, the boy slumped in his chair and scowled. "I don't like it there. It's stupid!" His bottom lip poked out.

Giselle reached out and grabbed his lip, twisting it slightly. "Yes, you must go back," she told him, her tone brooking no further argument. "And you will continue to go, until your maman says otherwise, or until you are sixteen years old." Releasing his lip, she added, "Now, take your dishes into the kitchen and go clean your teeth."

The boy snatched up his plate and stomped out of the room, grumbling under his breath. Giselle winked at Erik and called after André, "I heard that."

Hiding his smile behind his napkin, Erik waited until they were alone before asking, "Do you have a recent edition of L'Epoque, Giselle?"

"I think yesterday's copy is still in the sitting room. Let me look." She returned moments later, the paper folded in half. Glancing at the headline, she shook her head. "It appears that the cleaning up of the Populaire will take some time. Merci a le bon Dieu that no one died in that tragedy."

Erik's breath caught at that, and when she had gone into the kitchen, he grabbed up the paper and unfolded it, devouring every word of the front-page story about the fire. Indeed, what she had said was true. Ubaldo Piangi had not died as a result of his encounter with the Punjab lasso; he had been found unconscious and near death, but was expected to recover fully. Erik felt a measure of relief. He did not regret killing Buquet, but in reality, Piangi had been quite harmless. I truly must have been out of my mind, he thought sadly.

But that part of your life is over now, a voice in his head reminded him. You are making a fresh start and everything will be different.

"Will it?" whispered Erik. Laying the newspaper to one side, he scrubbed his face with his hands. It must be, he told himself desperately. It must be different—better—from now on.

He picked up the paper again, intending to turn to the section where job openings were listed, but an artist's rendering of a couple caught his eye. The headline blared, "Engagement announced!" Below it was a drawing of Christine, seated in an ornately carved wooden chair, with Raoul standing behind her, one hand on her shoulder.

Erik held his breath, waiting for some intense pain to strike him in the chest at the sight of the announcement. When nothing untoward occurred, he closed his eyes with a sigh. "I wish you the best of love and life, Christine," he murmured. Folding the paper, he left it lying on the table and went up to his room.

He locked the door and went to the far corner. Pulling up the loose floorboard he had found his second day here, he drew out the bag of money he had hidden. He went to the bed and counted out three hundred francs in bills and coins, replacing the rest and returning it to its hiding place.

With his cloak slung over his arm, he went downstairs and gave Giselle the money for his laundry. "Where is the nearest bank?" he asked, and she directed him to one several blocks west and south of her house.

As he stepped out onto the stairs, the meager sunshine seemed like a precious gift, and he turned his face up to it for a moment. Then he pulled the hood of his cloak up and set off to the bank.

The employee at the bank who opened his account for him did not even look twice at the scars on Erik's face. "Sign here, please, M. Devereaux," the bored-looking young man instructed him. "This is your account number; please memorize it so that future transactions will go smoothly."

Erik wrote his name where indicated and handed his money over the desk. The young man left and came back a few minutes later with a receipt, which he shoved across the desk at Erik. "Is there anything more that we might do for you today, M. Devereaux?" When Erik shook his head negatively, the bank employee gave him a stiff nod and said, "Good day to you, Monsieur," and walked away.

Arrogant little whelp, thought Erik disgustedly as he made his way outside. The sun shone brightly and the air felt warm, almost spring-like. He walked along, his thoughts scurrying hither and yon as he considered what type of job he should look for, when he realized he was near the pawn shop where he had seen the violin in the window.

Stopping in front of the shop, he closed his eyes for a moment, almost afraid to look and see if the instrument was still there. Bah! Lâche! he thought angrily. If it is gone, c'est la vie. You can purchase another, you know.

He took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. Opening his eyes, he looked at the spot where the violin had been. Nom du Ciel! He felt his knees go a little weak. It was still there, its orange-red varnished surface gleaming faintly.

Quickly he calculated the amount of money he had with him; if it was not enough, perhaps the shop owner would bargain with him. Erik squared his shoulders and went inside.

The owner came from the rear of the shop, his smile fading as he noticed the scars. "Yes, Monsieur?" Then he frowned. "I remember you," he muttered. "What do you want?"

Matching his tone, Erik replied, "The violin in the window—I want to look at it."

His movements jerky, the owner pulled it from the window and thrust it at Erik. "Just don't drop it."

Carefully Erik examined the instrument, noting that the finish on the back had been damaged a tiny bit, but other than that, it was in excellent condition. His heart began to speed up when he saw that the purfling's joints were cut on the straight and not the bias. Sacré bleu! A Vuillaume in a pawn shop? He arched an eyebrow at the shop owner. "And where is the bow?" When the man grudgingly produced it, Erik sighted down the length of it and saw that it was not warped. Turning the bow over, he saw the tell-tale powder of rosin on the hair. He tucked the violin under his chin and drew the bow across the strings.

Although somewhat out of tune, the music that Erik created with the violin made the shop owner's mouth drop open in shock. The violin's tone was dark and deep; the music brought a lump to his throat. He barely recovered from his surprise in time to answer Erik's question about the price. "Um . . . ten francs, Monsieur."

"That includes the case, I presume?" murmured Erik distractedly as he looked at the violin again. This time he carried it to the window and turned it until he could see inside. The serial number was only partially visible, but he did see the initials "JBV" doubly encircled. He angled the violin a little more and saw Vuillaume's signature. His breath caught. What a treasure I have found, and quite by accident! Farther up were the numbers "1839", the year of its manufacture.

Reaching into the inside pocket of his cloak, he pulled out a ten-franc coin and gave it to the shop owner. The man brought the case to him and Erik gently laid the instrument inside, as carefully as if it were a sleeping child. He cradled the case against his chest as he walked back to the boarding house, scarcely able to believe his good luck.

When he arrived, he found no one at home. A huge smile split his face and he hurried upstairs. Throwing off his cloak, he put the violin case on the bed and went down on his knees beside it. He opened the latches on the case and simply stared at his violin for several long moments. "By what turn of fate have you come to me?" he whispered, running his fingertip along the instrument in awe.

Taking the violin out, he put it under his chin and tuned it. With a sigh he touched the bow to the strings and began to play. Bach, Haydn, Beethoven, and Vivaldi poured forth in a great rush of emotion; when Erik stopped playing much later, his right arm was aching and his cheeks were wet with tears. Merci, he thought, although he was not at all sure to whom he was giving his thanks.

Unbeknownst to him, Giselle had returned from her trip to the market not long after Erik began to play. She stood at the bottom of the stairs, sniffling quietly into her handkerchief and wiping her eyes. When he stopped playing, she tiptoed back into the kitchen, feeling as though she had just been given a great gift.

The rest of the day passed quietly, Erik borrowing a book from Giselle to read in his room after dinner. It surprised him greatly then, when he woke later in a cold sweat, gasping for air. Merde alors! He'd been able to put it out of his mind during the day, but his memories of the past few months took their revenge after he'd fallen asleep.

Sitting up, he threw aside the light blanket that covered him and stood. He went to the small table that held a basin and pitcher and poured a handful of water, scrubbing his face with it.

Erik still found it difficult to get a deep breath, and crossed the room to the tiny window. The cold January air seeped in around the loose-fitting glass and raised goose bumps as it dried the water dripping from his face.

Get out! a voice in his head shouted. Get out before the walls cave in on you.

Blindly he moved to the rod across one corner of the room that held his clothes and picked up his cloak. Swirling it around his shoulders, he opened the door and glanced at the stairs.

It appeared that everyone else in the rooming house was sound asleep. He slipped down the stairs and out into the night. He stopped at the corner, gulping air as if he'd been suffocating.

His breathing easier, Erik began to walk down the street, avoiding the patrons that occasionally spilled from the cafés out onto the street. Pulling his hood up against the breeze, he continued walking, not paying much attention to where he was going.

Obviously, the announcement in the paper affected you more than you realized, the voice in his head said tauntingly.

"Yes, and what of it?" Erik whispered savagely in reply.

The voice fell silent and he glanced around him, noticing that the buildings in this part of the city were constructed differently than where he lived. Structures of two and three stories with bay windows and balconies sat back off the street, rather than the shops or offices sitting on the curb.

He stopped walking and cocked his head, listening intently. Am I hearing things? Closing his eyes, he concentrated on the faint sound. Yes! That is someone playing the cello. Head up, he followed the music down a side street until he located its source, a three-story building with a large bay window on the first floor.

The curtains had not been drawn, and he could see the interior of the apartment. That is the girl I gave the money to, the one whose wages had been stolen. Slowly he edged closer until he could see her clearly. The light from the streetlight did not quite reach into one corner of the stairwell, and Erik ducked far enough into the shadows there to be hidden from sight, but still see into the apartment.

One of the windows was open a crack, and he heard the girl exclaim in frustration as she played the same section over and over. He recognized the piece; the fingering and bowing of this section were extremely difficult to master.

Painstakingly, the girl played it slowly, each note separately. The next time she increased the speed with which she played and made no miscues until two-thirds of the way through. "Fils de . . ." she muttered, and rose from her chair. She laid her cello on the sofa with a bit more force than necessary and stalked across the room to the window.

Opening wider the pane that was closest to Erik, she stuck her head out and breathed deeply. He could see the faint shadows under her eyes and found himself wondering what had put them there. She drew one final deep breath and turned back to the room. Muttering, "I have to play better than this—I refuse to embarrass M. Bertrand or myself," she picked up her cello and sat down.

Twice more she fumbled the notes in the same place and Erik heard her curse under her breath. Stepping closer to the open window, he said quietly, "At the place where you falter, try playing just one or two measures at a time, Mademoiselle. Over and over, until they are correct." He saw her stiffen at the sound of his voice and look cautiously toward the window.

"Who is there?" she asked, glancing at the door to her apartment.

Erik thought carefully before he answered. "Merely someone like you, who loves music, Mademoiselle."

She frowned, and hearing the wistfulness in his tone, he cursed at his carelessness. With another wary look in his direction, she played the measure before where she always blundered and then slowly the next two. Again and again, she played the same three measures, gradually increasing her speed, until it was at the tempo it should be.

"Brava," said Erik, making her jump. Evidently, she had forgotten that someone was outside listening to her. She stood and came to the window, carrying her cello with her. Peering out into the dark, she searched the street for the person who had spoken to her.

She leaned out the window a few inches, still looking, but he made certain he was well hidden. With a shrug, she said, "Merci, Monsieur . . . Ghost."

"No," he replied almost immediately. "Not a ghost . . . Just . . . a man." He waited until she half-turned from the window before moving from his hiding place. She spoke over her shoulder and he froze.

"Pardon, Monsieur, but . . . Have we met before? Your voice sounds . . . familiar to me." This is the man who gave me the money! I know it! "Monsieur?" Veronique waited a moment but there was no reply. Going back to the window, she leaned out, looking in all directions for someone moving away. Not a soul was in sight.

Later in the night, something woke her. Sitting up in bed, she closed her eyes and listened. Very faintly, she heard a violin. As if in a dream, she got up and went to the bay window in the living room. She opened the window and waited. Nothing but the sounds of the night came through the window. Have I gone mad? she thought. I know I heard a violin! Just as she was about to give up and go back to bed, she heard it again, the uplifting strains of the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria.

As the soft sound of the last note died away, Erik lowered his new violin and smiled. He tucked it into its case and lay down on the bed. Within seconds, he was sound asleep.

* * *

Jean Baptist Vuillaume (1798-1875) was an illustrious French violin maker. He made over 3,000 instruments and was also a fine businessman and inventor. He drew his inspiration from two famous violin makers—Antonio Stradivari and Giuseppe Guarneri del Gesù. Instruments of these two renowned men came through Vuillaume's shop and he made copies of them, one reported to be so exact that the owner, Niccolò Paganini, could not tell it apart from the original until he played them both and heard subtle differences in the tone of each instrument.

(More detailed info can be found on Wikipedia.)

Lache-- coward

Nom du Ciel—Name of Heaven


	9. Chapter 9

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: At long last, our happy couple meets face-to-face... :-)**

Chapter Nine

Something kept tickling his nose, and Erik reached up to bat it away. Then he heard Marguerite purring, and knew it was her tail flicking across his face. "All right, I'm awake," he muttered. "What do you want now, chaton?" Feeling above his head, he patted her side and she purred louder.

The clock downstairs struck once, on the half hour, and he sat up to find his watch. Squinting in the faint light of pre-dawn, he saw that it was only 5:30. He lay back down and pulled the blanket up snugly under his chin. "Go back to sleep, chérie," he murmured to the cat, smothering a yawn. "Too early to be awake."

After listening to her purr for several minutes, he realized he was not going to go back to sleep. So, after breakfast I will take the omnibus to Vuillaume's workshop and inquire about a position there, he decided.

What if they want references? the voice in his head asked.

I'll tell them I was working at the Populaire and they were destroyed in the fire, Erik thought.

Too risky, the voice replied. With so many from the Populaire roaming the streets looking for work, they could ask someone about you much too easily.

It's not as risky as looking for a job in a theatre or with an orchestra, fumed Erik. "I'm going to Vuillaume's shop, and that's all there is to it!" he whispered. Too angry now to go back to sleep, he dislodged the cat from the top of his head and set her on the mattress. She made a faint 'mrow' of protest but went back to sleep.

Getting out of bed, Erik prowled the small room, avoiding the floorboards that he knew squeaked. For a brief moment he thought of using his grandfather's name as a reference. Bah! He would be nearly 80 years old. Probably he is long dead by now. And after the way he treated Maman . . . Erik dismissed the idea out of hand.

After breakfast he dressed in his best clothing and walked to the bank, where he boarded the omnibus. It took a frustratingly long hour, and changing busses three times, before he reached the workshop of Jean Baptiste Vuillaume on the Rue Pierre Demours near the Ternes.

When he opened the door, the pungent but not unpleasant smell of sawdust, glue and varnish greeted him. "Bonjour," he addressed the man seated at the worktable nearest him. "I would like to speak to M. Vuillaume, s'il vous plaît."

Without looking up from the pieces of wood he was gluing together, the man grunted, "He's not here."

Erik waited a moment, and when the man said nothing else, he asked, "When will he return?" A full minute passed with no response and he felt his temper begin to simmer. "Pardon, Monsieur, but when will he return?" repeated Erik with an angry edge to his tone.

The workman jerked his chin toward a door at the rear of the room. "Go ask Robilliard. I don't keep up with M. Vuillaume's schedule."

Erik strode toward the door the man indicated, walking through piles of sawdust and wood shavings. He knocked on the door impatiently. When it swung open, he asked, "M. Robilliard?"

A stout, gray-haired man looked up at him, his gaze flicking toward the scars but settling on Erik's eyes. "Oui, I am Robilliard. You are looking for work, I presume? We do not have room for any more apprentices, Monsieur."

"From the look of the workshop, you need someone to clean and sweep, at the very least." Erik could have bitten off his tongue, but it was too late—the words were out.

The other man glanced around him and grunted. "Yes, I suppose you are right about that. You would be willing to sweep and clean, Monsieur . . .?"

"I am Erik Devereaux. As long as there was the understanding that I would work my way up the ladder, so to speak, and learn to craft the instruments," replied Erik immediately. He wanted no misrepresentation about his expectations.

Robilliard looked at him again. "Do you know anything about stringed instruments? Do you play any of them?"

"I have been playing the violin since I was eight years old," Erik told him.

The shop foreman moved past him into the workroom. "Here." Robilliard snatched up a violin sitting to one side and gave it to Erik. "Look it over and tell me what you see."

Carefully Erik took the violin and turned it over a couple of times. "The varnish on the back is unevenly applied," he said. "It is thicker at the bottom than at the top." He propped the instrument up against a pale background and stepped away to study it from a distance. After a moment, he added, "The middle bouts are uneven. The left one has a slightly longer curve than the right."

Picking up a bow lying on the table, he made sure it had been rosined recently then he tucked the violin under his chin and tuned it. Almost immediately he laid it back down. "The tone is horrible, messieurs. I would not pay one centime for this instrument. It was quickly and poorly made and it is a disgrace to M. Vuillaume's reputation."

Without a word Robilliard picked up another violin and handed it to Erik. "Try this one."

Erik took his time, looking at the instrument from all possible angles. "Much better," he murmured after several moments. Taking the bow he pulled it across the strings, and made minute adjustments to the pegs on the ornately carved scroll. With the tiniest hint of a smile, he put the violin under his chin and began to play a Bach sonata.

When he stopped, Robilliard and the others applauded. "Bravo, Monsieur," said the shop foreman. He took the violin from Erik and picked up the inferior one in his other hand. "This one," he gestured with the inferior violin, "was intended to be a Saint Cecilia violin, for practice only. Hélas, it did not pass 'inspection'." Almost reverently, he laid the second instrument on the table behind them. "That one was crafted by M. Vuillaume himself. Unfortunately, the person for whom he made it did not return from the war."

Hands on his hips, he gave Erik a long stare. "Perhaps I was wrong about you, M. Devereaux. There may be an apprentice position here for you after all. But—I must still speak to M. Vuillaume when he returns from Italy, and he is not expected for several more days."

Careful to keep his face expressionless, Erik replied, "Then I will return, shall we say, in one week's time?" Robilliard nodded; Erik sketched a bow and left.

"Strange duck, that one," muttered one of the workmen.

"Perhaps," said Robilliard. "But it won't matter how strange he is, if he can learn quickly enough."

* * *

Veronique cursed under her breath. The day had been one minor disaster after another and she was trying not to lose her temper. First she had burned her toast at breakfast and the tea kettle had boiled over, and now she had spilled the contents of the drip pan of her small icebox when she tried to empty it. "Sainte Mère, I knew I should have stayed in bed today," she muttered.

After mopping the kitchen floor she decided to practice for her next lesson with M. Bertrand, in two weeks. With the first touch of her bow, the G string snapped with a loud 'ping', and she let loose with every oath and curse word she knew. "Oh, la vache! Merde alors! Fils de putain!" Drumming her heels on the floor, Veronique howled in frustration.

With her anger momentarily spent, she got up and went to find another string. Twice she searched her cello case; she found one spare for the other three strings, but not for the G string. She sat down on the floor abruptly, unsure whether to laugh or cry.

Get out of here for a while, a voice in her head demanded. Even if you only walk up and down the street a couple of times, go out and get some air!

Knowing the voice was correct, Veronique stood and grabbed her coat. She made sure she had her key and was out the door before she could think twice. Hands shoved in her pockets, her head bowed against the breeze, she had no conscious destination in mind. It has been only three days since I posted my letter to M. Bertrand; he probably has not even received it yet. Hélas, patience was not one of her virtues. Her maman had certainly reminded her of it often enough.

A flash of orange caught her eye, and she looked up to find herself in front of Mme. Tremaine's house. Smiling, she went up the stairs and knocked.

"Why, Veronique! Please, come in," said Giselle when she opened the door. "Here, let me take your coat, child. Come back to the kitchen; I just finished baking some cookies for André." Without waiting for a reply, she started for the back of the house, chattering all the while. "When I went out to the market this morning, I thought the wind would cut me in two. I certainly will be glad when spring arrives this year."

Within minutes they were seated at the table, a plate of warm sugar cookies between them and a cup of tea for each. Samson appeared and Veronique grunted softly when he landed in her lap. "Que Dieu nous aide, I think you have gained some weight, chat gros," she murmured as she rubbed under his chin.

"So, ma chérie, how have you been since I last saw you?" Giselle looked at her with a critical eye. The girl appeared thinner, and that worried the older woman.

"Oh . . . Well . . . I wrote to my cello teacher and asked him about instrument makers here in the city," she said softly. "I have not received a reply, though. He lives in my hometown, which is halfway between here and Dijon." Sighing, she added, "I think I should probably look for another job in the meantime, since it will take the better part of a week for my letter to reach him."

Giselle nodded. "That sounds like a wise thing to do, child. What kind of job are you planning to look for? If you are successful in obtaining a position with an instrument maker, then any other job you might take would only last for a few weeks at most. Can you cook? Perhaps there would be something for a short time in a café."

Taking a sip of her tea, Veronique grimaced slightly. "Only if I could remain behind the scenes, in the kitchen. I would gladly wash dishes—as a temporary job, of course."

The older woman tapped her fingers on the table as she considered the possibilities. "A friend of mine owns a café a few streets over. Perhaps I will go by there on my way to the market tomorrow and speak to him. If it is agreeable to you, chérie."

Veronique smiled and nodded. "Merci, Madame—Giselle. I would appreciate it very much."

The front door opened and closed and they heard footsteps coming down the hall toward them. Veronique sat with her back to the door, but Giselle smiled widely. "Erik! Please, come and join us. This is the girl I was telling you about." She stood and went to the cupboard, taking out a mug. Returning to the table, she poured him a cup of tea and sat it at the place next to Veronique. "Erik Devereaux, I would like to present to you Mademoiselle Veronique duPres."

His hands stilled in the act of unbuttoning his cloak as Erik recognized the girl from the night before, also the one to whom he had given the money. Clearing his throat, he moved around to the side of the table and draped his cloak on the back of the chair. He reached for the girl's hand, and dropped a tiny kiss on her knuckles. "Enchanté, Mademoiselle," he murmured.

"I am pleased to meet you, Monsieur Devereaux," she said quietly. She gave him a steady look and a tiny smile, nodding before she dropped her gaze back to Samson. Her heart pounding, she thought, So, the stranger who gave me the money and the man from last night are one and the same!

Several long moments passed with only the sound of the fire crackling in the stove and the clock ticking in the hallway to break the silence. Finally, desperate to fill the void, Giselle said brightly, "Erik is a musician, too. He plays the violin beautifully."

His eyes cut to her in shock and she shrugged. "I heard you playing yesterday," she admitted without a hint of remorse. "It brought tears to my eyes."

A flush of faint color rose in his cheeks. Sainte Mère! he thought, just don't mention that I sang to you when I was sick! Finding his voice, he asked, "Is that a good thing, my music making you cry?"

"Bah, what a foolish question! Of course it is a good thing." Shaking her head at his obtuseness, she continued, "As I think I told you, Veronique has lost her job, and she is hoping to find a position with one of the instrument makers here in the city. Do you by chance know where she might look for such a job?" asked Giselle. She nudged the plate of cookies toward him, smiling when he took one.

Erik devoured the cookie in two bites, and washed it down with a gulp of tea before answering. "I know of two string instrument makers here—Jean Baptiste Vuillaume and Charles Jean Baptiste Collin-Mezin. I believe they both craft celli as well as violins." He looked at Veronique and frowned. "I don't know if they would hire a woman apprentice, Mademoiselle. Certainly your smaller hands and fingers would be useful in some circumstances." He shrugged. "Perhaps there are more luthiers than these two, but I know the quality of instruments crafted by Messieurs Vuillaume and Collin-Mezin."

She squared her shoulders and looked him directly in the eye. "Merci, Monsieur, for this information. I must seize the opportunity and find out."

* * *

Oh, la vache!—Damn it

Que Dieu nous aide—God help us


	10. Chapter 10

**A Song in the Night**

Chapter Ten

"You will stay and eat dinner with us, won't you, chérie?"

Although phrased as a question, Veronique knew that it really was not. She blinked rapidly, willing away the tears that suddenly welled up. "Of course, Mme. Giselle. I would be honored to stay for dinner." I will repay you somehow—I promise!

"Good! Then you and Erik will help me and chop the vegetables for the soup." Rising from the table, Giselle opened a drawer and pulled out two knives and a small cutting board. She disappeared down a short flight of stairs to the cellar, returning with several carrots and potatoes. Dumping them in the sink, she pumped water over them and rubbed off any remaining dirt.

"Here, Erik, give Veronique the carrots to peel and chop. You will peel the potatoes for me," said Giselle over her shoulder. She put the damp vegetables on a dishtowel and he carried them to the table while she brought the knives and cutting board. This she set in front of Veronique. "Cut them in pieces about like so," she told the girl, holding her thumb and index finger apart about a half inch.

"Peel the potatoes in this bowl," she directed Erik, placing a crockery bowl in front of him. "Be sure you peel them as thinly as possible—I don't like throwing away potato with the peel."

"Oui, Madame," they both murmured at the same time, making her laugh merrily.

"Pardon, mes chéries. Elisabeth says I would have been a great asset to the army, giving orders as I do." They all chuckled and set to work.

The savory aroma already wafting up from the soup pot made Erik's mouth water. As soon as the carrots and potatoes were ready, Giselle added them and gave the soup a vigorous stir. Grabbing two dishtowels, she moved the pot to the back of the stove where it would simmer until everything was just right.

* * *

Dinner was a pleasant enough meal, although Erik felt himself growing quite annoyed at the looks the other boarders were giving Veronique. As soon as the men finished eating, however, they left the table, and those remaining—Giselle, Elisabeth, André, Veronique and himself—were able to enjoy a more relaxed conversation. Erik did not say much, content simply to listen to the women.

"Erik, be a dear and walk Veronique back to her apartment, will you?"

As with her invitation to Veronique to join them for dinner, he knew that it was not a question, but rather another order from Général Giselle. He managed to keep from shaking his head at her machinations, but just barely. "Certainement, Giselle. I would be most happy to do so."

The older woman brought Veronique's coat and he helped her slide her arms into the sleeves. After the two women shared a hug and bid each other adieu, Erik and Veronique set out for her apartment a few blocks away.

They walked in silence for several minutes, each not knowing quite what to say to the other. Finally Veronique broke the not-so-uncomfortable stillness. "Thank you for the loan," she murmured. "Especially since now I have lost my job, it is most precious to me."

Grateful for the darkness that hid the sudden color rising in his cheeks, Erik replied, "You are quite welcome." They went a short distance before he added, "I heard you playing last night and followed the sound. I . . . I am sorry if I frightened you, speaking to you from outside your window."

Veronique stopped and turned to him, laying a hand on his arm. "I must admit I was a little startled hearing your voice like that, but . . . When you helped me with that one passage . . ." Her voice trailed away and she tucked her hand back in her pocket. "Thank you, again," she said softly. "Your advice helped tremendously."

They walked a little farther, and Veronique said, "Late last night, I heard someone playing the violin, the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria." Erik inhaled sharply and she whispered, "Was that you?"

"Yes," he replied simply. After a moment, he asked, "Were you playing the Schubert Ave Maria, the night before last?" This time he was the one who stopped, touching her arm briefly.

Goose bumps washed over Veronique, and she rubbed her hands up and down her arms in an attempt to banish them. "I heard . . . someone singing, while I played," she told him, her eyes huge in the soft glow of the streetlight.

"Nom du Ciel!" said Erik under his breath. In a louder voice he told her, "I have not been . . . moved to sing . . . in some time. Your playing . . . That song . . . it was my maman's favorite."

A sudden gust of wind swirled around them and Veronique shivered. "My apartment is just down the street," she said. "Would you like a cup of coffee, M. Devereaux?"

He smiled at her, a fleeting smile that she would have missed had she not been looking directly at him. "Merci, I would indeed. But, please, Mademoiselle, call me Erik."

As she went up the stairs to her apartment, she looked back over her shoulder. "Then you must call me Veronique." She unlocked the door and swung it open. "It's a very small apartment, but . . . it is really all that I need."

He saw her cello lying on its side on the sofa and went to look at it. Carefully he picked it up and set it on its end pin. "A beautiful instrument," he murmured. "Why have you not replaced the G string?"

"Because I don't have a spare one, and since it broke just this morning, I have not had time to buy a replacement." Frowning, she bit her lip. "Actually, I am not certain where I should go to buy one. You mentioned two luthiers in the city, Mon—I mean, Erik. Would they sell me extra strings?"

Glancing up at her, he shrugged. "I really don't know, but I suppose that would be the logical place to begin." He put the cello back on the sofa and added, "Perhaps if it had broken at one end, you might be able to still use it, but . . ." Gesturing to the place where the string had snapped, right in the middle, he said, "There is no help for that."

And then there is the question of paying for it, Veronique thought morosely. She was distracted by the sight of Samson sitting on her windowsill, and she went to open the window and let him in. "Ah, bonsoir, mon ami," she murmured as he jumped gracefully to the floor.

He tolerated her petting him for a moment, then he sauntered over to Erik and began to weave around his legs, purring madly. "Well!" said Veronique teasingly. "It seems that I have been replaced."

Startled as much by her tone as by the cat's attention, Erik looked up at her in surprise. She gave him a grin and propped her hands on her hips. "No more free cheese for you, vous coquin," she told the cat, shaking her finger at him in mock reproof.

The big orange tabby gave her a look, as if to say, Well, we'll see about that, and went right on rubbing on Erik's legs.

Carefully Erik bent down and picked him up, grunting as he did. "Sacré bleu! You must weigh four times what Marguerite does. Just how many people feed you, chat gros?"

"I would like to believe that he enjoys my company as much as the food, but . . . Hélas." Sighing, Veronique went into the kitchen and immediately the big cat leaped out of Erik's grasp and followed her. Erik trailed behind them, smiling as she gave the cat a tiny dollop of Camembert.

Veronique pulled out a small bag of coffee beans and ground enough to brew two cups. As they waited for the coffee to finish, they spoke haltingly of the weather and other neutral subjects. As soon as the coffee was ready, she poured it into mugs, and offered one to Erik. "I'm sorry, but I don't have any cream," she murmured.

"That's fine," he told her. "I don't use cream anyway." Their fingers grazed when he took the mug from her, and she swallowed hard, pulling her hand away hastily.

Sainte Mère, what is happening to me? she thought, giving him a weak smile before taking a quick sip of her coffee. The heat of the liquid scalded her tongue and she winced. The silence stretched out between them, as though they could find nothing to talk about outside of music.

She glanced up at him, only to find him staring at her. "What?" she asked. Immediately he dropped his eyes to his coffee, and took a drink. A faint tinge of color rose in his cheeks, and Veronique felt a corresponding warmth on her face as well.

After several more minutes of deafening quiet, broken only by Samson's purring from underneath the table, Erik stood. "Merci, Veronique, for the coffee . . . and your most pleasant company," he said. "But I must go; I have . . . an early appointment tomorrow."

* * *

Erik walked back toward the boarding house, deep in thought. Even though he had really seen her only once before, he believed she looked thinner tonight. She does not need to be giving away any of her food to that cat! he thought in frustration. But somehow, he knew she would not stop doing it. Shaking his head, he also knew she would be angry when she discovered the five-franc note he had slipped inside her cello case while she was letting Samson out the window.

Ah, well, he thought with a shrug. I'll worry about that when it happens. When he arrived at the boarding house, Giselle was waiting for him. Silently he groaned as he recognized the glint in her eye. "Bonsoir, Giselle," he murmured, hoping against hope she would let him pass by without an interrogation.

"Well?" she asked, nearly pouncing on him when he tried to escape up the stairs after greeting her. "Isn't she a darling girl?"

Grunting in agreement, he continued on his way up to his room. He heard Giselle following him and turned around. "What?" he asked, exasperated. She merely arched an eyebrow at him and he sighed heavily. "Please, Giselle, leave well enough alone and do not try to play Cupid. If that is going to happen, let it happen on its own." He turned his back on her and went up to his room, missing her perceptive smirk.

Marguerite slipped through the door just as he was closing it. Bending down, he scooped her up and nuzzled her behind her ears. "Bonsoir, chérie," he murmured, setting her down on the bed. His violin lay in its case at the foot of the bed and once he had taken off his cloak, he picked it up and ran his fingers along the back and sides lovingly. "I will admit this to you, chaton, and only you," he whispered to Marguerite. "Giselle is correct—she is a very nice girl."

He took the bow out of the case and went to the window, opening it a couple of inches. "For you, Veronique," he said softly, and began to play.

* * *

Sitting on the wooden seat of the bay window, wrapped in two quilts, Veronique leaned her head against the glass and sighed. Since when have you become a tongue-tied ninny, Veronique? she asked herself angrily. Ordinarily you have no trouble talking to anyone.

"But Erik is different," she whispered. "I can't explain it; something about him just . . ."

Bah! the voice in her head retorted. You are too sensible a girl to fall into that lovesick foolishness.

Then she heard it. Not the same music as before, but this time she recognized nuances in his playing. Frowning, she tried to remember the name of the piece, but it escaped her. The music seemed to flow around her, rising to sweet heights and then falling away to nearly nothing. When the last note lingered on the air, she stood and touched the window. "Good night, Erik," she whispered.

* * *

Giselle hurried to answer the door, wondering who in the world could be pounding on it so early in the morning. It was only half past seven; they had just finished breakfast. She opened the door to find Veronique on the stoop, her face flushed with anger, if one could judge by the look in her eyes.

"Good morn—" was all the older woman got out before Veronique spoke through clenched teeth.

"Where is he? Erik," she clarified. "I need to talk to him immediately."

Nonplussed, Giselle replied, "We just finished breakfast. When I came to the door, he was still . . . in the dining room," her voice trailed off as Veronique marched past her and down the hallway.

Seeing her stomping toward him, Erik stood and prepared himself for battle. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Elisabeth take André and pull him into the kitchen. "But, Maman!" he heard Andre protest. "I want to watch!"

Erik chuckled to himself. Oh, I am certain it will be quite a show!

"Just what is the meaning of this?" Veronique waved the now-crumpled five-franc note under Erik's nose. "What did you think you were buying?" Her tone indignant, she poked him in the chest with her index finger. "Or whom?"

* * *

vous coquin— you rascal/rogue 


	11. Chapter 11

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: I will be away from my computer over the weekend and thought I would post the next chapter tonight. A mild warning for language; we also get a glimpse of 'our' Phantom... :-)**

Chapter Eleven

Instinctively, Erik took a step backward when Veronique's finger struck his chest. His mouth opened and closed twice before he found his voice. "Pardon, Mademoiselle, I—I meant no offense. I simply hoped that you would . . . accept a loan toward the cost of replacing the broken string of your cello."

The fight drained out of her at his softly-spoken words, and she dropped her head. "Oh," she murmured, stuffing the money in her pocket. Her face flushed with even more color, she mumbled, "I am sorry, Monsieur." Turning on her heel, she rushed out of the house without another word.

"Veronique, wait!" She heard Giselle call after her, but she broke into a trot and soon was out of sight. After a few minutes, she swiped angrily at the tears clouding her vision.

Merde alors! Veronique chastised herself. You must be the silliest girl on the face of the earth! How could you have thought for one instant that he meant anything improper by leaving the money?

She trudged home, muttering to herself occasionally, and stomped up the stairs to her apartment. A scrap of paper was tacked to the door, and she jerked it down, cursing softly when the paper tore nearly in half. Thrusting her key in the lock, she opened the door and once inside her apartment, kicked the door closed with her foot, perversely enjoying the resulting slam.

Not waiting to remove her coat, Veronique went to the window and held the two sections of the note together. " 'You must remove yourself and any belongings from these premises by no later than noon tomorrow,' " she read aloud, gasping in outrage as she scanned the rest of the message. " 'Single women are not permitted to have men in their rooms without a chaperone. A man was seen leaving your apartment late last night.' "

Stunned, she dropped to the window seat and stared at the far wall. "I don't believe this! Condemned without a fair hearing, without a chance to explain. Fils de . . . ! Wasn't that why they fought the damned Revolution?" Furious, she crumpled the note and flung it to the floor. 

Sainte Mère! What am I going to do with my furniture? The small sofa, the secrétaire, her bed and night table, and the table and two chairs in the kitchen she had brought with her from Auxerre. Clutching the small gold cross that had belonged to her mother, she whispered several Aves, hoping the prayer to the Blessed Virgin would calm her enough to think clearly.

Go talk to Giselle, the voice in her head told her.

"No!" whispered Veronique quickly. "I cannot impose on her kindness again. I have already done that far too many times in the last few days."

Who said anything about imposing on her? retorted the voice. Just go and talk to her. She might know of somewhere you could live. 

"And I suppose I should apologize for the way I acted earlier," Veronique muttered. "Will I never learn to control my temper and think before I speak?" Sighing heavily, she pushed to her feet and went to the door, kicking aside the crumpled note from the landlady. 

Take a deep breath, Veronique, and count to ten. She smiled faintly, hearing her maman's voice in her head. Obediently, she did, and felt marginally better when she let the breath out slowly.

On the walk back to Mme. Tremaine's, she tried to practice what she would say to that good woman, but it got all jumbled up in her head and finally she gave up. At the bottom of the steps outside the house, Veronique's knees wobbled, weak with dread. You must do this, and now, Veronique, she told herself sternly. Knees still trembling, she climbed the stairs and lifted the doorknocker.

Giselle opened the door a short time later. She said nothing when she saw Veronique; she simply opened her arms and the girl fell into them with a soft cry.

"Oh, Madame! Please forgive me for my horrible behavior this morning," cried Veronique. "I honestly do not know what I was thinking, how I could have believed . . ."

The older woman patted her on the back comfortingly. "Shhh, ma fille, it's all right. No harm done. Your life has been turned upside down these last few days—I think it is completely understandable if you are not quite yourself." Sliding an arm about her waist, she led the girl toward the kitchen. "Come and have a cup of tea, chérie. That will solve a world of ills, I've discovered."

Tiredly Veronique took off her coat and draped it over the back of a chair in the kitchen. "I just . . . don't know what's wrong with me," she murmured. "Normally I don't . . . I'm not . . ." She smiled gratefully when Giselle set a cup of tea in front of her. When she saw Samson stomp toward her, she scooted her chair back a little and patted her lap. 

He needed no further invitation and made himself at home. His rumbling purr seemed to ease the tension in her shoulders a little, and she scratched him behind his ears. "Merci, mon chèr ami," she whispered.

"I can see in your eyes that something else has happened since you left here earlier," Giselle said to her. "What is it, chérie?"

Veronique took a deep breath and held it for a moment, then let it out slowly. "I am being evicted from my apartment, for being a single woman who allowed a man in her rooms without a chaperone." 

* * *

The words, spoken with no emotion, stopped Erik cold as he walked into the kitchen. Merde alors! "But . . . we did nothing but talk and drink coffee!" he muttered.

Veronique's head jerked around at the sound of his voice, and a flush of color rose in her cheeks. "Yes, you and I know that, but to anyone else who might have been watching us . . ." Her words trailed off and she grimaced.

He felt his temper beginning to rise and fought to keep it under control as he walked around the table. "I will speak to your landlord and—"

"It will not do any good," interrupted Veronique. "My landlady is as sour an old woman as I've ever met. Based on my dealings with her, she will say that her version of the 'event' is second in truth only to the Holy Gospel." Her shoulders slumping, she spoke softly. "Now I must find a place to live as well as a job." She reached out to pick up her teacup with a trembling hand.

Seeing her obvious distress, Erik silently but vehemently cursed the woman who had caused it. It made him wish that he had not left his Punjab lasso behind at the opera house. Perhaps I will pay the old biddy a short visit, after all. He leaned back against the cupboard, thinking.

Giselle spoke for the first time since Veronique's announcement. "I offer you the use of the small room off the pantry, chérie, until you can find another apartment."

A lone tear traced its way down the girl's cheek, and she wiped it away with a knuckle. "No, Mme. Giselle. Merci beaucoup, but I cannot accept."

"Why not?" the older woman demanded immediately.

"Because . . . because I have . . . imposed on you so many times already, in such a short time . . ." She bit her lip to keep from sobbing.

Giselle dismissed her concerns with a wave of her hand. "Bah! You have eaten with us, what, twice? Three times? That is not imposing, child. That is friendship."

Erik chuckled, startling both women. "You had best give in, Veronique. She is going to have her way, no matter what excuses you offer or how you try to reason with her. A wise man knows when he is defeated."

Shooting him a look he couldn't quite decipher, Giselle reached over and took Veronique's hand. "I insist, ma fille. And as Erik knows all too well, I always get my way. At least in my own house."

Veronique had to swallow twice before she could speak past the lump in her throat. "I—I have a little furniture that I must move, also," she whispered.

"We will find a place for it in the attic, chérie," Giselle assured her. "One of the neighbors has a wagon; we'll borrow it and his horse and get your things out of that dreadful place by tonight." She slanted another look at Erik. "Perhaps it would be wise, after Veronique has finished her tea, for you to return to her apartment with her and help her bring some of her things back here this morning. If this woman is as devious as I suspect," she said to the girl, "she will be waiting for the first opportunity to steal whatever she can from you, child."

Incensed at that thought, Veronique got to her feet, set Samson in the chair and downed the rest of her tea in one gulp. "She had better keep her filthy, greedy paws off my things," she muttered. Glancing at Erik, she added, "I will meet you at the front door."

Armed with a small wooden crate and some burlap bags, they set off a few minutes later. Erik found himself hiding a smile as Veronique muttered under her breath, dire threats and warnings to her landlady. I must be careful not to provoke you, petite chatte, he thought with a grin. At least, not very often.

As they climbed the stairs, Veronique turned to him with a martial glint in her eye. "If she has touched my cello, I'll . . ."

"Don't go borrowing trouble, Veronique." He reached out and took her hand, stopping her momentarily from unlocking the door. "Take a deep breath and hold it. Now, close your eyes and let it out slowly." When she did, he released her hand with a tiny squeeze. "All right, let's go in now."

Thankfully, everything was as she had left it, and she sighed in relief. "I have some boxes in the kitchen, I think, from when I moved here a few months ago. You put my books and things from the secrétaire in the wooden crate; I'll work in the kitchen."

Within a couple of hours they had boxed and packed everything except the furniture, and Veronique had folded her clothing into three small carpetbags. One of her neighbors came to ask her something, and after a couple of glances at Erik's face, offered the use of his small hand cart. The three of them carried her things to the curb and loaded them on the cart. The neighbor also offered to keep an eye on Veronique's furniture and they began the return trip to Giselle's. 

Carrying her cello, Veronique tried not to think about the old biddy who had booted her out on the street, but with little success. Dried-up old prune, she thought acidly. She huffed out a breath and switched the cello to her other arm. I'll show you! she added defiantly. "I'll become the best, most famous cellist in France, maybe all of Europe," she muttered.

Giselle met them outside and grabbed a couple of suitcases off the cart. "Come, chérie, let's go look at the room." To Erik she said, "I'll send André out to help you. Set everything in the parlor for now, until Veronique can decide what she will need." She grinned at his mock salute and ushered Veronique into the house. "If your bed won't fit, there's a cot in the attic," she said as the door closed behind them.

Shaking his head, Erik hefted a box and set it on his shoulder. Général Giselle is at it again, he mused. Although that may not be such a bad thing. The poor girl seems at the end of her rope.

By dinner time, Veronique was settled in the small room, and Samson was happily ensconced on the cot. Erik had worked up quite a sweat hauling the furniture up to the attic, so he indulged in a bath before dinner. As he sat soaking in the hot water, he pondered again the idea of visiting the landlady later tonight. Perhaps just put a flea in her ear, he thought, a bit of warning against repeating such actions in the future? And perhaps it would be wise to wait a night or two, also. 

* * *

The clock was striking seven as he made his way downstairs. The other boarders were already seated at the table, and Veronique helped Giselle and Elisabeth bring the food into the dining room. When she started to go back into the kitchen, Giselle stopped her.

"No, ma fille, you will stay and eat with us. You're staying with us for a short while and you helped me prepare this, so . . ."

Duchense, the boarder who had given Veronique the leering looks the night before, spoke up. "And just who is going to pay for her meals, hein? I'll volunteer, if there are no other . . . takers." He grinned suggestively, nudging the man sitting next to him, who gave him a look of supreme disgust.

"Jesu, Duchense, watch your tongue for once!" muttered M. Chermont, scooting his chair a short distance away.

"I have already arranged it with Mme. Tremaine; I will pay for Mlle. duPres' meals, Monsieur," said Erik, his voice curt and cold. The look he gave the other man made him swallow hard and drop his gaze to the tablecloth, where it remained for the entire meal.

At the end of dinner, Giselle fixed her own searing look on her witless boarder. "M. Duchense, I will have a word with you in the parlor, now." Without waiting for him to respond, she pushed back her chair and swept regally from the room.

Erik slipped down the hallway and shamelessly eavesdropped on the conversation, if it could be termed such. Giselle did all the talking.

"One more such vulgar display, Monsieur, and you will be forced to seek accommodations elsewhere." Giselle spoke coldly, but Erik heard the considerable anger vibrating in every word. "I have tolerated your drunkenness and foul language and lewd remarks for the last time. No more. The next time you choose to insult someone else living here, I will throw you out on your sorry ass. Do you understand me?"

A short pause, then M. Duchense mumbled, "Oui, Madame, I understand."

Erik heard footsteps approaching the door and hurried back to the dining room, unable to keep a wide smile from crossing his face. "Brava, Giselle," he murmured.

* * *

Later that night, after the rest of the house had settled into sleep, Veronique tossed and turned. The cot was comfortable enough, for what it was. She simply could not find the correct position and fall asleep. She had been so restless that Samson deserted her after only a few minutes. Punching her pillow, she flopped over on her back with a soft oath. Merde! You should be so exhausted that you can't keep your eyes open. Yet here you are, staring at the ceiling, as wide-awake as this morning.

You know what is keeping you awake, that annoying little voice in her head piped up. You're waiting for Erik to play for you. Silly baby, can't go to sleep without her lullaby.

"Oh, shut up!" she growled in reply.

* * *

Three floors above her, Erik paced his tiny room, unable to sleep either. What a bizarre turn of events. I am glad that Giselle is willing to help her, but . . . it feels strange, knowing she is here in the same house. He held his violin in one hand, unsure if he should play tonight. 

After arguing with himself for several moments, finally he tucked the violin under his chin and began the Kyrie from one of Schubert's Masses.

* * *

Duchense, fortified with the entire contents of a bottle of cheap wine, heard the soft music too, as he crept out of his room. We'll just see who throws who out on their sorry ass!


	12. Chapter 12

A Song in the Night

**A Song in the Night **

**A/N: Warning for violence and language... we see more of "our" Phantom here. :-)**

Chapter Twelve

Guy Duchense hitched up his dirty trousers and opened the door to his room. Standing in the doorway, he heard the soft music from the floor above, and smiled nastily. He's at it again, he sneered to himself, playing that prissy music. Well, no matter. If he's busy with that, then he can't interfere with my plans.

After living in the house for a little over a year, Guy knew where all the squeaky boards were. With great care, he avoided those planks and managed to sneak downstairs without drawing attention to himself.

Unknown to the others, Duchense was a part-time thief and carried lock-picking tools with him at all times. Stopping in front of Giselle's door, he withdrew a slender metal object from a worn leather case and inserted it into the lock. He grinned to himself when the lock gave way almost immediately; he turned the doorknob and opened the door just far enough to peek inside.

A mound of pillows and blankets lay on the bed; he could see them in the faint glow from the fireplace. Anticipating what was about to occur, Guy grinned broadly and slipped in the room, closing the door behind him.

One step at a time, he made his way across the room to the bed. For a moment, he stood looking down at Giselle, noting the curves of her hips and bosom under the blanket. Oooo, what a tasty piece this is going to be! he thought, nearly smacking his lips at the idea.

Swiftly he put his hand over her mouth. "Don't fight me and you won't get hurt," he told her when her eyes popped open in surprise. Immediately both of her hands clawed at the one covering her mouth, her nails drawing blood. With a snarl, Duchense slapped her, stunning her momentarily.

The blow brought Giselle fully awake and she lashed out blindly. She managed to punch him in the eye with her fist, knocking him off-balance. He staggered a few feet away, far enough so that she could reach for the small hammer under her pillow. "Now then, you filthy bâtard, you want to try again?" she spat at him.

He lunged at her and she threw the hammer at him. Unfortunately, it missed his head and hit the wall with a loud thud. "You can fight me all you want to, you high and mighty bitch, but it won't do you any good." Reaching down, he started to pull the bedclothes away and she poked him in the eye with her finger. He bellowed in pain; at the same instant, Giselle screamed.

* * *

Erik stopped playing, his head cocked in concentration. He'd heard what sounded like something being knocked over a second ago. Then Giselle's scream made the hair on the back of his neck stand at attention. Dropping his violin on the bed, he threw open his door and bolted downstairs, his heart in his throat.

He burst into Giselle's room in time to see Duchense yank her from the bed and try to rip her nightclothes off. With a growl Erik launched himself at the other man, striking him from behind, and knocked him to the floor.

They tumbled down in a tangle of arms and legs, the smell of the wine Duchense had drunk rushing up to assault Erik's nose. He easily outweighed Duchense by fifty pounds, and was stone-cold sober. He slammed the other man's head into the floor repeatedly, not feeling the body go limp beneath him.

"Erik! Erik, stop!" Giselle grabbed his arm and dragged him partially off her attacker. "Stop! He didn't hurt me! For God's sake, don't kill him here!"

Finally her words pierced the red haze of rage in his brain, and Erik scrambled to his feet. He took her hands in his and squeezed them hard. At her quizzical look, he swallowed. "Are you certain that he didn't harm you? Can you tell me what happened?"

"Of course I can—the fils de putain tried to rape me; for that alone, I would like to cut off his ba—" At that moment Elisabeth came running into the room and threw her arms around her mother.

"Maman—"

"Grand-mère! What happened?" André's sleepy voice came from the doorway.

Sacré bleu! What will happen next? Before Erik could finish the thought, the other two boarders and Veronique appeared in the hallway, everyone talking at once. Without thinking, he whistled sharply through his teeth. In the stunned silence that followed, he began to give orders.

"Veronique, would you take André into the kitchen, and perhaps make all of us some hot chocolate? M. Montaigne, would you and M. Chermont find some rope and tie up M. Duchense, please?" Realizing suddenly what he had done, Erik turned to Giselle and said, "With your permission, of course, Madame?"

Murmuring "Mais oui," she eased out of Elisabeth's arms to grab her robe and put it on. To the manor born, she thought wryly. Just what else is hiding in your background, Erik, besides extraordinary musical talent?

* * *

A furious M. Duchense sat in the hallway, tied in one of the sturdy kitchen chairs, a rag stuffed in his mouth to silence his obscenities. Erik had searched Duchense's pockets after the vile little man had come to, finding only one object of interest. Giselle had thanked the other two men for their help, and at Erik's insistence, they had returned to their rooms. After André had finished his chocolate, Elisabeth had bundled him away as well. At the moment, Giselle, Erik and Veronique sat at the kitchen table, nursing cups of tea.

With a grunt, Erik pushed away from the table and got up to pace. After a moment, he turned to Giselle. "Are you certain that you don't want to send for the police, Giselle? He should pay for what he attempted to do to you."

She shook her head. "Unfortunately, my experience with the police has not been, shall we say, very satisfactory? I despise being treated as though I am a hysterical woman who cannot think for herself."

Erik rubbed his hand over his mouth to hide a smile. Then he remembered what he had found in Duchense's pocket and scowled. "How long has that salaud been living here?"

"A little over a year, I believe. Why?"

"I found this when I searched him." Erik tossed it on the table. "It is a set of lock-picking tools." When the implications of that set in, he nodded grimly. "You had best speak with the other two men and see if anything has gone missing from their rooms."

Giselle swallowed, thinking of the hundred-and-one horrible things that could have happened at any time in the past year. "Yes, certainement. And I will have Elisabeth check her room and mine, as well." Goose bumps washed over her as she thought of that despicable man in her room, rummaging through her garderobe . . .

Then her temper flared and she cursed Duchense and the circumstances of his birth. "Miserable, lying fils du cochon! He had better hope I never set eyes on him again."

Hearing muffled noises coming from the hallway, Erik strode out to where Duchense sat. He stood with his hands on his hips, calmly surveying the man tied in the chair. "I know you have heard every word that we have said," said Erik quietly. He bent over until his face was mere inches from the other man's. "Let me add one final warning: If you ever come back here, for any reason, I will hunt you down and kill you."

Duchense's blood-shot eyes flashed angrily, and Erik laughed, a cold sound that the managers of the opera would have recognized in an instant. "Don't believe me, eh? Well, then I suppose it is inevitable that we will meet again." With a flick of his wrist, he loosened the ropes holding Duchense, and jerked him to his feet. One hand going to the man's collar and the other to his belt, Erik hustled him down the hallway and opened the door.

As he literally threw the other man down the stairs, Erik called after him, "Remember what I told you, Monsieur. It was no idle threat."

Duchense spat on the sidewalk. "You'll be sorry, you damned circus freak—you and that holier-than-thou bitch. Don't say I didn't warn you." Before he could turn and walk away, Erik appeared in front of him, grabbed him up by the front of his shirt and shook him like a dog.

"Better men than you have tried to kill me, Monsieur. And yet, here I stand." He brought his other hand up and slid it around Duchense's neck. He applied just enough pressure to make the other man's eyes bulge a little. "Touch any of the women, or the child, and it will be the last thing you ever do, cafard," Erik told him, his voice a low growl. "Now get out of here and don't come back." He dropped Duchense, watching him collapse into a pile at his feet. Turning on his heel, Erik went up the steps and into the house without a backward glance.

At Veronique's insistence, Giselle sat in a hot bath, soaking away her aches from the incident with Duchense. Occasionally, she shivered, when she could not keep her thoughts from what might have happened if Erik had not come to her rescue. After a few minutes, when the water began to cool, she rose and dried herself, wrapping a thick robe around her.

Elisabeth met her outside the water closet and with their arms around one another, mother and daughter walked to Giselle's room. "Are you sure you are all right, Maman?" Elisabeth asked her for the hundredth time.

Feeling a little exasperated, Giselle opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it when she saw the tears in her child's eyes. "Oui, ma chérie, I am fine." Cupping her daughter's cheek, she smiled and added, "Go on back to bed, ma fille. I'll call you if I need anything."

When Elisabeth had gone, Giselle sank down on her bed with a sigh, only to pop back up again a few seconds later. Angrily she pulled the sheets and blankets from the bed, tossing them in a pile on the floor. She went to her closet and got clean ones, and remade her bed with a grimace, putting the hammer back under her pillow.

A scratching sound at the door made her jump and press one hand to her heart. Opening the door cautiously, she was a bit surprised to see Samson and Delilah, the calico, sitting there. "Well," murmured Giselle, "to what do I owe the honor, mes chéries? Entrez, s'il vous plaît."

The big orange tom barged right in, leaving the smaller female cat to follow more hesitantly. With a tiny smile, Giselle picked her up and held her close. The cat began to purr softly, and rubbed her head under Giselle's chin. "Merci, chérie," whispered Giselle, blinking away tears, and made her way over to the bed, where Samson had plopped himself right in the middle.

Oddly enough, she found herself drifting right to sleep, once she and the cats had come to an understanding about who was sleeping where. The last thing she heard, other than their purring, was Erik's violin. She smiled. Merci, mon chèr ami.

* * *

Unable to go back to sleep after all the excitement, Veronique wrapped herself in one of her maman's quilts and stole quietly upstairs. She knew that Erik's room was the only one on the top floor and she could see him through the partially-open door, standing in front of the window, his violin under his chin. Silently she sat down in the hallway, her back against the wall, and pulled her knees up under her chin, tucking the ends of her quilt around her feet.

His voice came through the opening, startling her. "What would you like to hear, mon amie?"

When her heart settled enough for her to speak, she could not think of the name of one single piece of music. "Some—something soothing," she murmured, "after everything that has happened today." She gave Marguerite a tiny smile when the cat came out of Erik's room and sat next to her, leaning on her leg.

"As my lady wishes," he replied quietly, and began the Bach-Gounod Ave Maria. When he had finished that, he segued into Verdi's Va, Pensiero, and then Pace, pace Mio Dio.

At the conclusion of his impromptu concert, he noticed Marguerite was not on his bed. He glanced out in the hallway, and felt his heart thump hard against his ribs. Veronique lay curled up, asleep on the floor, the little cat curled up on top of her hip. "Shhh," he whispered to the cat as he picked her up gently. "We mustn't waken her, chaton."

Quickly he set the little cat on his bed, and returned to the corridor. After studying Veronique's position for a moment, Erik went down on one knee and scooped her up in his arms, quilt and all. He froze when she made a soft noise and burrowed against him. When she did not waken, he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding, and carefully made his way downstairs.

In the miniscule room off the pantry, he had to turn sideways to get to the cot. Veronique slept on, and he laid her down with great care. She turned over on her side, murmuring, "Good night, Erik," as he pulled the quilt at the foot of the cot up and over her. In stunned silence, he watched her sleep for several moments then shook himself out of his reverie and went back upstairs.

He woke in the gray light of pre-dawn, his arms wrapped tightly around his pillow. What in the world? Then he remembered carrying Veronique downstairs . . . and sighed.

* * *

Veronique woke slowly, at first not recognizing her surroundings. Then she remembered— nearly accusing Erik of . . . improper advances, being evicted, moving here to Giselle's, M. Duchense's near-attack of that wonderful lady . . . And something else prodded at the back of her mind. When she sat up, the smell of bay rum and subtle spices teased her nose. Where have I smelled that before? Her face flooded with color when it came to her. But how did Erik's cologne get on my quilt?

* * *

salaud—skunk, scoundrel cafard—cockroach

Va, Pensiero—from Nabucco, the Hebrew slaves' chorus, unofficially considered the national anthem of Italy, sung by a chorus of more than 800 before Verdi's burial at La Casa di Riposo.

Pace, pace Mio Dio—from La Forza del Destino, sung by Leonora, as she begs God for the peace of the grave. (Moments after singing this, she is killed by her own brother, who she is trying to help. Ahhh…. Opera.)


	13. Chapter 13

**A Song in the Night**

Chapter Thirteen

Frowning, Veronique swung her legs over the side of the cot and sat with her chin cupped in one hand. I remember . . . going upstairs and sitting in the hall outside Erik's door, but . . . I don't remember . . . coming back down here. "He . . . he must have . . . carried me," she whispered. A flush of heat swept through her, followed almost immediately by goose bumps.

No! she told herself sternly. You cannot think about that. You need to find another job, and another apartment. You have no time to think about . . . that. Pushing to her feet, she dressed and went into the kitchen, finding Giselle already at the stove, stirring a pot of oatmeal.

"Bonjour, chérie! How did you sleep last night?" The older woman greeted her cheerfully, and Veronique shook her head at her resilience.

"That is something I'm sure everyone will be asking you this morning, Giselle," replied the girl, reaching out to squeeze the other woman's shoulder. "You were the one that foul little man attacked, not me." She picked up a long-handled fork and turned the sausage links that lay sizzling in a skillet.

Shrugging, Giselle moved the oatmeal to the back of the stove where it would remain warm but cook no further. "Ah, well, ma petite, life moves on. That . . . serpent did not hurt me, thanks be to God, and Erik, for his timely arrival."

A soft grunt came from the doorway. "I believe that is the first time I have heard my name and God's in the same sentence," Erik said, "at least in pleasant circumstances." He came into the room and took Giselle's hands in his, looking deeply into her eyes. Evidently what he saw there satisfied him, for he gave her hands a squeeze and released them. "Breakfast smells wonderful," he said, trying to steal a sausage over Veronique's shoulder. She swatted his hand away and frowned at him.

"Carry in the plates, then sit at the table and behave yourself," Giselle ordered him with a slight smile, shaking her head. "You are as bad as André."

This meal was much more pleasant than the previous one, and when everyone had finished, Giselle said, "As you might suspect, after the events of last night, M. Duchense is no longer living here. When I have thoroughly scrubbed his room, it will be available, if one of you gentlemen would prefer it?" Vehemently, all three shook their heads 'no', and Giselle turned to Veronique. "Chérie?"

"Merci, Mme. Giselle, but no. I think my skin would crawl if I tried to sleep in that room." She shivered at the thought and rubbed her arms.

"Bien. I must inform you, gentlemen, that M. Devereaux found a set of lock-picking tools in M. Duchense's possession. If you would please check your rooms and tell me if anything belonging to you is missing, I would appreciate it." Giselle gave them a tiny smile and added, "Merci, Messieurs, for your assistance last night." She then rose and began to stack the dishes. Veronique and Erik helped carry them into the kitchen, then the women shooed him out as they cleaned up.

* * *

The next several days passed uneventfully, for which everyone was thankful. As she had promised, Giselle spoke to her friend who owned a café, and he was more than happy to have Veronique come to work for him, and not washing dishes. As he told her, his account books were in horrible condition, and he desperately needed someone to straighten them out. It was not work that she especially enjoyed, but it was employment.

A week after his first visit, Erik returned to the shop of M. Vuillaume, only to find that he had missed the great man once again. However, Robilliard, the shop foreman, had some good news.

"I spoke with M. Vuillaume about you, and told him that I was quite impressed with your abilities, how quickly you found the deficiencies in the practice violin. He has agreed to hire you as an apprentice violin maker, for a trial period of three months." Robilliard studied Erik closely.

Erik managed to choke back a sigh of relief. "When should I report for my first day of work, Monsieur? And at what time?"

The other man shook his hand and said, "Be here the day after tomorrow, at eight o'clock in the morning, precisely." As Erik made his way out of the room, Robilliard added, "Be sure that you bring something to eat at lunchtime—there are no cafés or pubs nearby."

Waiting until he was out of sight of the shop, Erik fairly danced his way to the omnibus stop. He sat in the rear, as was his custom, a huge smile splitting his face. Not even the constant crying of a colicky baby in the seat in front of him could dampen his happiness.

At the second of the three transfer points, he saw Veronique waiting with the other passengers. Her bronze-colored hair gleamed in the weak winter sun, and when he stepped down off the omnibus, he noticed a radiance about her, a twinkle in her green eyes that had been absent before. "Veronique?"

Just like the very first time she had heard that voice, it sent goose bumps washing up her spine. "Oh, Erik!" she cried, twirling around in front of him, a paper clutched in her hand. "I have received a reply from my cello teacher, and he has sent a letter of recommendation for me! And, wonder of wonders, he says M. Vuillaume is an old friend of his." Without thinking, she flung her arms around Erik and hugged him.

His arms closed around her and he held her close for a brief moment. "I have some good news, also," he murmured in her ear. When she pulled out of his arms, he gave her a slow smile. "I have just been hired as an apprentice at M. Vuillaume's shop."

"How wonderful!" She did a little jig, then someone jostled her in passing, and she stumbled, landing against Erik. Color rose in her cheeks and she righted herself. "When do you begin? How soon do you think I should go there with my letter from M. Bertrand?"

The other passengers surged toward the omnibus, sweeping Erik and Veronique along with them. They chose to sit in the rear and Veronique held onto his hand the entire journey. "Finally!" she murmured. "It's very nice, having some good luck for a change."

I can't tell her that Vuillaume isn't there, thought Erik desperately. At least not here. I don't want to spoil her happiness yet. Then he realized that she still held his hand. Gently he gave her hand a squeeze and when she looked at him, he merely said, "Yes, it is nice to have good luck." He thought about what he had tucked in the corner of his room and did his best to hide a smile. Perhaps this time she won't get too angry. "Do you have to return to the café?"

Veronique shook her head. "No, since I have restored order to M. Lambeau's account books, he has said that I only need to come in on Monday, Wednesday and Friday." She sighed. "I need to practice for my lesson with M. Bertrand, but I still have not replaced the G string on my cello." She sighed again. "I am terribly out of practice and I am going to sound like a beginner."

When they arrived at Giselle's, no one was at home. They went into the kitchen and Erik put a hand on Veronique's arm. "I have a small surprise for you," he said softly, and dashed up to his room. He bounded down the stairs moments later, trying to hide something behind his back. "I hope you won't be angry," he told her, and put the package in her hands.

Holding her breath, she opened it—and squealed. "Oh, Erik! For my cello!" She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him fiercely. "Oh, thank you, thank you!" Going up on her toes, she kissed his scarred cheek.

Her impulsiveness startled them both, and they separated with a jerk. Erik's hand went to the spot where her lips had touched him, and he closed his eyes for a second.

"Erik?" Veronique touched his arm and his eyes flew open. "I didn't hurt you, did I? I'm sorry, I didn't mean to! Maman was forever chiding me about thinking before I acted."

The lump in his throat prevented him from answering at first. "No," he said finally, his voice raspy, "it's all right. It doesn't hurt." At that moment, Giselle came in the front door, and he fled up the stairs without another word.

Veronique stood with her mouth agape, staring after him. When Giselle greeted her, she responded absently, and sat down at the table. "I . . . I'm afraid I've done something wrong, Giselle," she murmured, staring at the spot where Erik had stood.

"Why is that, chérie?"

Shrugging, the girl propped her elbows on the table, resting her chin on her fists. "It's . . . Erik," she said. She explained about the letter from M. Bertrand and meeting Erik at the omnibus stop, and Erik's gift of the string for her cello. "And then, I . . . I kissed him, on the cheek, to thank him and he just . . . stood there for a moment, then raced upstairs when you opened the door."

"Ahhh." Giselle set cups of tea on the table for them and took the chair next to Veronique. "Erik is . . . an unusual man, chérie. He is obviously well-educated, but because of his scars, I think that he probably hasn't spent much of his life in the company of other people."

Veronique frowned, and the older woman explained, "In other words, he doesn't know how to react to something as simple as a kiss on the cheek from a pretty girl." But he knows how to beat the merde out of someone like Duchense, and recognizes lock-picking tools.

"Should I apologize to him?" Chewing on her bottom lip, Veronique looked at Giselle, her eyes huge with worry.

"No, don't mention it at all, ma fille. Just act as though it never happened, as much as you can." And the next time it happens, I wager he won't run away! Smothering a grin at the thought, Giselle rose and went to the stove. "So, how soon will you go to M. Vuillaume's shop with your letter of recommendation?"

"I don't know. I suppose I should let Erik tell you, but when we met at the omnibus, he said he had just been hired to work for M. Vuillaume. I could ride with him, whenever he begins to work." She frowned as she realized Erik had not said when that would be.

* * *

Upstairs in his room, Erik heard the murmur of their voices and knew beyond a doubt that they were talking about him. Idiot! Imbécile! he berated himself. Could you have acted any more foolishly? It was just a simple kiss of gratitude.

Well, yes, the voice in his head replied immediately. You could have kissed her in return.

Blowing out a deep breath, he flopped on the bed and covered his eyes with his forearm. "I must be very careful in the future," he muttered. "I must not repeat the mistakes of the past." Which means that I should stay as far away from her as possible, he thought morosely. "But . . . I like her," he whispered. "She is very different from Christine. She is feisty and proud and doesn't suffer fools." Sighing, he scrubbed his face with his hands. "I cannot act differently toward her now. I need to go on as I have begun."

Having reached that conclusion, he rose and went downstairs. He paused on the bottom step, took a deep breath and held it for a long moment. Slowly he let it out and, squaring his shoulders, went down the hallway to the kitchen. Peals of laughter reached his ears and he smiled, hoping fervently the merriment was not at his expense.

"Oh, Erik, come in and join us," said Giselle, her voice still thick with laughter. "I was just telling Veronique something that André said the other day."

Erik sat down at the table and glanced at Veronique. "Have you told her the news?" She smiled and nodded and he continued. "I begin working at M. Vuillaume's shop the day after tomorrow. You asked me when you should take your letter and speak to him. When I was there, the shop foreman told me he had left on another of his trips, and would be not return for a week."

Veronique slumped in her chair. "Nom du Ciel!" She bit her lip. "Will you tell me as soon as you hear that he has returned?"

Reaching out, Erik took her hand and gave it a squeeze. "Absolutmente!" He glanced down at the table and gestured at the cello string laying there. "Do you need any help replacing it?"

"No, I have done it many times before. When I am finished, could we . . . play together?" She looked at him shyly, not realizing the supplication that showed in her eyes.

"Of course, chérie. I would like that very much." He turned to Giselle, who had a smug little smile on her face. "May we use the parlor?"

"Mes enfantes, you may use any room in the house that you wish." She resisted the urge to clap her hands in glee. All in all, things are progressing quite nicely.

Veronique carried a chair from the kitchen into the parlor, and retrieved her cello. Quickly she unfastened the broken string and took the replacement one out of the package. It took her four attempts, and she was just at the edge of losing her temper, but she finally got the string into place. She heard Erik chuckle from behind her and spun around.

"It appears we have an audience," he said, nodding toward the sofa. Occupying the seat were Samson, Delilah and Marguerite.

She gave him a wide smile. "My favorite type of music critic." Playing a few scales, she limbered up her fingers, listening with a touch of awe as Erik did the same. "What shall we play for them?"

Erik shrugged. "You choose. Just begin and I'll join in, whatever it is."

Her father's favorite folk song flowed from her cello, bringing forth, as it always did, sweet memories of him. After several moments she heard Erik begin a countermelody, and it took great effort on her part not to let her jaw drop in surprise. Sacré bleu, he is a genius!

When they had finished, Erik said, "I don't believe I've ever heard that before. What was it?"

"My papa's favorite tune, a folk song from Bourgogne. I moved here from Auxerre a few months ago, after my maman died." She spoke softly, reaching up to touch the cross she always wore. Then she smiled up at him. "Your turn to choose."

His choice was Pachelbel's Canon in D, and at the appropriate time, Veronique joined him, the sounds from their two instruments rising to fill the small room. At the conclusion, she chanced a look at their "audience", and stifled a giggle. "I'm not certain what that says about our music," she said, pointing her bow at all three of the cats curled up asleep.

"Mes chéries, may I make a request?" Giselle's voice came from the doorway.

"Certainement," they both replied at the same time, giving each other a tiny smile.

"The Schubert Ave Maria, please?"

Nodding, they both began to play, and soon Giselle was dabbing tears. As the sound of the final note died away, she came into the room and hugged them both fiercely. "Ah, comme c'est beau," she whispered. "Merci."

* * *

Comme c'est beau—how beautiful it is


	14. Chapter 14

**A Song in the Night**

Chapter Fourteen

One week later

Erik stopped outside the front door, knocking the slush from his boots before entering the house. Hurrying to the kitchen, he felt his spirits dive a little when he found Giselle alone there. He pulled off his cloak and dropped it on a chair. "Is Veronique here? I must speak to her immediately."

Giselle spoke over her shoulder. "She is in the vacant room, trying to decide if she could stand to sleep there or not." A few days after Duchense's 'departure', Giselle decided that the furniture in that room was no longer suitable for her house, so the other two men had helped Erik carry it out. Giselle had scrubbed the walls and floors vigorously with lye soap, and had left the windows cracked open to allow some fresh air inside.

He hurried up the stairs now and found Veronique standing in the doorway, chewing on her thumbnail. "M. Vuillaume has returned!" he told her excitedly.

She turned to him, her eyes huge with mixture of hope and worry. "Oh, please tell me he's not planning to leave again tomorrow!"

"I don't believe so. At least, I didn't hear Robilliard say anything about it." Erik stared at her, seeing her close her eyes and take a deep breath. "Are you all right, chérie? You look a little pale."

Letting out the breath slowly, she opened her eyes and laughed softly. "Nervous, that's all."

Scared to death is more like it, the voice in her head retorted.

Veronique huffed out a breath in irritation, earning a quizzical look from Erik. Giving him a quick smile, she said, "So, tomorrow I will take my letter to him, and pray for my good luck to continue."

* * *

The next morning, Erik and Veronique sat together on the omnibus, each lost in their own thoughts, saying very little. When they arrived at Vuillaume's, Erik held the door open for her, and then went to his worktable. They had agreed it would be best if no one at the shop knew that they were acquainted.

Veronique spoke to one of the men bent over a table. "Where might I find M. Vuillaume?"

Hearing a woman's voice, the man raised his head and stared at her for a long moment. Then he jerked his head to the left. "He should be in there, Mademoiselle," he muttered, and went back to his work.

Veronique thanked him and walked in the direction he'd indicated, holding her skirt up to avoid the piles of wood shavings and sawdust. They need someone to clean in here, at the very least! The door opened just as she was about to knock, and she took a quick step backward.

"Oui, Mademoiselle? How may I help you?" A stout, gray-haired man spoke to her, and she handed him her letter.

"This is for M. Vuillaume, from his friend Alphonse Bertrand," she said quickly, "in reference to me, Veronique duPres."

"Bonjour, Mlle. duPres. I am Antoine Robilliard. M Vuillaume is inside. Please, go in and take a seat." He handed the letter back to her and pushed the door open a little wider. Returning a few minutes later with a tray holding a small carafe and three cups, he went inside his office and closed the door.

* * *

Erik tried to concentrate on his work, gluing two pieces of maple together to form the back of a violin. But his attention kept going back to the door of Robilliard's office. Please, do not let her be disappointed yet again! He wasn't sure to whom he directed that thought, but it went through his mind over and over.

After what felt like hours, the door opened and Veronique and Robilliard emerged. She glanced in his direction and nodded once, but he thought she did not look as happy as he had believed that she would.

Robilliard spoke over the noise of the planes and rasps. "Messieurs, your attention, s'il vous plaît. This is Mademoiselle duPres. She will be working for us, cleaning up after us, beginning tomorrow. M. Vuillaume expects you to treat her with the same respect as you do your wives and mothers. I leave you to introduce yourselves." With that announcement, he made a short bow to Veronique and returned to his office.

After a moment, Veronique went to each table and the men quickly muttered their names and went back to work. At last she stood at Erik's table, and he told her his name quietly, as the others had. She smiled briefly and nodded, and he thought he saw tears glistening in her eyes. I'll talk to you tonight, she mouthed, and he nodded in reply.

* * *

On the ride home, Erik chafed his hands together, trying to warm them and finally stuck them under his armpits. The ride felt interminable before they reached the final stop. Quickly he climbed down from the omnibus and strode in the direction of the boarding house, quite anxious to see Veronique and talk to her, find out what had happened in her meeting with Vuillaume. He arrived just as they were sitting down to dinner and he hurried to wash his hands and join them.

The meal was another of Giselle's masterpieces, and afterward they sat back in their chairs, replete. She folded her hands together on the table and said, "Messieurs, if I may impose upon you again—Mlle. duPres is going to be moving into the vacant room, and I—we would appreciate it very much if you could bring her furniture down from the attic . . . once your meal has settled, of course."

Chermont and Montaigne murmured their agreement and rose from the table to step outside for a cigar. Erik waited until they were out of earshot before turning to Veronique. "What happened with M. Vuillaume, chaton?"

Sighing, she slumped in her chair. "Oh, he was glad to have news of M. Bertrand. And he was quite courteous and pleasant to me, but he did not feel the business could take on another apprentice at this time."

"Oh, chérie, I am so sorry." Erik reached out and took her hand, rubbing it between his.

"Why should you apologize? It's not your fault. At least I will be working there in some capacity. I did extract a promise from him, though, that he would hire me as an apprentice as soon as possible." She grinned at him. "Evidently M. Bertrand's recommendation was quite . . . glowing."

It is not the only thing that is glowing, thought Erik as he looked at Veronique. Giselle's good cooking had filled in the hollows in her cheeks, and her eyes sparkled at him. She was the same young woman he had come to know, and yet . . . she was different.

* * *

With much grunting and a few muffled curses, the men got Veronique's bed and other furniture carried down to the second floor. She directed them as to where to set each piece, thanking them profusely when they had finished.

Giselle came in a moment later, carrying some of Veronique's clothes. "Well!" she said, glancing around the room. "I believe that this calls for a special dessert tomorrow night, as a thank-you." She looked at the three men and asked, "What would you all prefer? A fruit cobbler, perhaps?"

The trio nodded immediately, smiling widely. "Bien, I will see what I can whip up. Bonsoir, messieurs. Veronique, if you need anything, I will be in my room." Giselle went to the door and the men followed her, Erik leaving the room last.

He went into the parlor and picked up yesterday's edition of L'Epoque, sitting down on the sofa to skim through it. On the back page, headlining the society news, was a lengthy article describing the marriage of Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny, and Christine Daaé.

Erik's breath left him in a whoosh, and he closed his eyes. His heart pounded for a beat or two, and he laid his head against the back of the sofa. Opening his eyes, he stared at the ceiling, but saw nothing. I wish you a long and happy life, Christine. Bonne chance. After a moment he rose and climbed the stairs to his room.

For a long time he stood and stared out his tiny window, moving only to bend down and pick up Marguerite when she twined around his legs. Settling her in the crook of his arm, he absently scratched behind her ears, smiling slightly when he heard her begin to purr. "How much my life has changed, chaton, and in only a few short weeks," he whispered to her. "All for the better, of course, although I would not have believed it when I first fled the Opera House."

He turned from the window and sat down on the bed, leaning back against the headboard. "I have friends now, chérie, which is a very strange thing for me. Giselle, Veronique, and you," he added, kissing the top of her head. With a sigh he set her on the mattress and scooted down until his head lay on the pillow. Promptly the little cat curled up next to him, her tail occasionally flicking his cheek.

As tired as he was, he could not fall asleep. When he closed his eyes, the vision of Christine and Raoul moving away from him in the boat filled his brain. With a muffled curse, Erik sat up and scrubbed his face with his hands. Oh, la vache! She is far better off with the boy than with you, and you know it!

He pushed to his feet and grabbed his cloak, thinking he would go outside and walk off his . . . frustration. When he reached the bottom floor, he heard a noise in the kitchen and moved silently down the hallway toward the sound. His breath caught in his throat when he saw Veronique sitting at the table, wrapped in her quilt, Samson filling her lap to overflowing. "Veronique," said Erik quietly, "are you all right?"

Her head whipped around at the sound of his voice, and she gave him a lopsided smile. "Yes, I just . . . couldn't sleep." At his frown she added quickly, "It's not the room. I'm not sure what is wrong exactly." She noticed his cloak in his hands. "Were you . . . going out?"

"Oddly enough, I couldn't sleep either." He sat down next to her, resting his elbows on the table. "The night that I stood under your window and listened to you play, I also had trouble sleeping. I went out walking, hoping to . . . wear myself out enough so that I would sleep regardless of my dreams."

"And you wanted to do the same thing tonight." She shifted the big orange cat a little, smiling when he opened one eye and glared at her. "If you would like to talk about it, I promise not to divulge anything." Erik did not reply, and after a long moment, she blew out a soft breath. "Well, I think I might be able to sleep now. Good ni—"

"Someone I once knew, and . . . and loved, married another man a few days ago," blurted Erik.

Speechless for a moment, Veronique blinked. "Oh, dear," she murmured, reaching out to lay a hand on his arm. "Tell me, as much or as little as you like."

He swallowed hard, and began to speak in a low voice. "She was . . . a student of mine, I suppose one could say. I heard her sing when she was only seven or eight years old and even then, her voice was remarkable for a child that age. She had recently lost her father and had come to live at the opera house."

"And you offered to teach her?"

Erik sat back, and looked at Veronique. "Oh, I know how it sounds, believe me," he muttered. "But she wanted to sing, and I wanted to help her, and . . . that's all it was, at first. And then . . . about six months ago, I looked at her and . . . she had grown up and she was beautiful and . . ." Gesturing to his face, he went on, "But when she got a good look at this, everything changed. A childhood friend came back into her life, a handsome, wealthy aristocrat and . . ." His voice trailed away.

"And she chose him over you," said Veronique softly. After a moment, she added, "As much as it might hurt you to hear it, I think she made the right choice." Erik's eyes narrowed in anger and she hastened to say, "Obviously she wasn't the right woman for you, if she could not see beyond the scars to the man you are underneath them."

Closing his eyes to hide the pain he felt, Erik muttered, "And just what kind of person am I, Veronique?"

"Compassionate, intelligent, talented, witty, charming—and the cats like you," she added with a grin. "What better testament to your character?"

A loud, angry yowl interrupted them, coming from just under the kitchen window. Erik shot to his feet and went to the back door, listening intently. When he heard footsteps pounding down the alley, he opened the door and stepped out, but a glimpse of someone running away was all he saw. He went back inside and closed the door, rubbing the back of his neck to dispel the ominous feeling he had. He took one step and nearly tripped over a big, solid black cat.

"Sacré bleu!" Erik grumbled. The cat laid its ears back and stared at him from narrowed golden eyes. Then something Giselle had told him his very first night here came back to him, and he said, "Bonsoir, Faust. Was that you we heard a moment ago?"

* * *

Duchense fled down the alley, damning all cats to hell as he ran. He had been standing under the kitchen window, listening avidly to Erik and Veronique, when something had brushed his leg, startling him. When he'd turned his head, two huge yellow eyes had been staring at him, and in his haste to get away, he'd stepped on the damned cat's tail.

So the freak had some connection to the opera, Duchense thought as he stopped a couple of blocks away to catch his breath. Wonder if he was the 'ghost' everyone talked about? I bet I can find someone who'll know. He and that old bitch are going to pay for what they did to me.


	15. Chapter 15

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: A bit of "quality time" for our couple... :-) A slight warning for Duchense crudity... I hope he is as vile as I think, and not merely cliched... his speech is written to convey no nationality, but that he has only had the most basic of educations...**

Chapter Fifteen

The next few weeks fell into a pattern, and Erik forgot about the man he'd seen running down the alley behind Giselle's house. Gradually he became used to Veronique touching him on the arm or the shoulder, although the wonder of it still amazed him. They played together usually once a week and he noted a marked improvement in her playing from when he had first stood outside her window.

She and Robilliard had discussed her schedule and she arrived at midday to begin her duties at the shop. This way she was able to continue working for M. Lambeau at the café, and was slowly putting some money aside. Late one night, sitting at the kitchen table, she told Erik that she felt somewhat content, for the first time since her maman had died.

This particular morning, however, she looked a bit pale and was unusually quiet at breakfast. Erik tried to talk to her, but she went immediately upstairs to her room and closed the door. When she arrived at the shop, she looked upset, but he had not had a chance to ask her what was wrong. Indeed, he had gotten so involved in his work that he had forgotten she was there. Both Robilliard and M. Vuillaume were quite impressed with Erik's progress, and he worked with very little supervision now.

"Lift up your feet," said Veronique as she swept a pile of wood shavings and sawdust from under Erik's worktable. When he didn't comply, she said it again, louder this time, which made him jerk in surprise.

The small plane he was using gouged a hole in the wood and he cursed virulently. "Now look what you made me do!" he growled at her.

"What I made you do?" she snapped back at him. "The great Erik, M. Vuillaume's favorite? I, Veronique, a mere woman, made a man do something against his will?" Her next breath was a tortured gasp; she dropped her broom and clutched her back.

"Veronique?" Immediately Erik's anger vanished and he leaped up from his stool, sliding one arm around her shoulders. "Veronique, what's wrong?"

"Back—sudden stab—stabbing pain," she panted, frozen in place. "Don't dare move."

Tentatively he moved his other arm in front of her. "Hold onto my arm," he said, slowly moving his right arm from her shoulders down to her lower back. He moved her hands aside and pressed his palm to the small of her back, hoping the warmth would loosen up the spasm in her muscles.

After a few moments, ever so gently he began to massage her back with the heel of his hand. Her death grip on his forearm eased fractionally and a soft moan escaped her. "Ooohh," she sighed. "That's much better. Thank you, Erik." She looked up at him and smiled, and he stopped his massage, letting his hand linger on her back.

Swallowing, he asked, "Can you move a little easier now?" She nodded and he backed away a few inches, and carefully she turned to one side then the other, testing her range of motion. "You probably should put a hot compress on your back when you get home tonight," he added.

"Yes, of course," she murmured. She tried to take a step, but her feet caught on the broom handle, and she started to fall. Erik put his arm around her and pulled her against his chest to steady her. She stared up into his eyes, one hand coming up to touch his scarred cheek. "So many colors, in your eyes," she whispered. "I never know what color they will appear to be—green, or blue, or gray."

He felt her heart pounding against his chest—or was it his own? It did not matter, because at that moment she let her head drift down until her cheek lay on his shoulder, her mouth just inches from the open collar of his shirt. How long they stood there, arms around each other, he did not know.

Erik had to swallow twice before he could speak. "Veronique?" he whispered, one hand rubbing up and down her back slowly.

She made a purring sound in reply, but did not move away from him. If anything, her arms tightened around his waist.

Merde alors, but I am in trouble! he thought, savoring the feel of her in his arms. "Veronique, chérie?" he tried again. "We must not be found like . . . this," he finished on a groan when she moved her head and kissed the hollow of his throat.

Her hands moved up his back slowly, as if memorizing the shape and feel of him. He sighed and buried his face in her hair. I am lost, he thought distractedly. I surrender. Moving his head slightly, he pressed a kiss to her temple, and inhaled the faint scent of lily of the valley that clung to her.

Loud footsteps in the hallway had them jumping apart; Veronique grabbed up her broom and dustpan, and Erik sat back down at his worktable.

Seconds later, Robilliard poked his head in the room and frowned. "What are you two still doing here? Haven't you looked outside? It's snowing heavily, and with the wind whipping up drifts, they've stopped running the omnibuses. You had better leave now, or you'll be stranded here overnight, perhaps longer."

When the shop foreman had left, Erik looked at Veronique. "We will have to walk, chaton, if we leave. It's a long way to Giselle's. It is warm here, although we have very little food. What do you prefer to do?"

She chewed on her bottom lip, distracting him to no small degree. "I . . . don't know," she murmured. "It is a considerable distance, and I don't think either of us is dressed to be out in the cold for that length of time." Huffing out a breath, she sank down on a stool at another table and rubbed her back. "I really don't want to risk another spell with my back."

Erik murmured his agreement and she added, "Not that it really concerns me greatly, but you know as well as I that sooner or later someone will discover that we spent the night here together, alone."

* * *

After peering out of the windows at the front of the shop, and seeing the snow already six inches deep and hearing the wind howling, they looked at each other and said, "We'll stay here," at the same time. Erik stoked up the fire in Robilliard's office, since it was the smallest of the rooms. He spread his cloak and Veronique's next to the hearth, and sat down in the middle of them. "Come, chaton, we will need to sit close together and share our body heat." Leaning back against the side of the fireplace, he held out his hand to her.

She knelt in front of him, and he took her shoulders, turning her around and pulling her back against his chest. She squirmed a bit as she arranged her skirt and petticoats, which made him bite the inside of his cheek in frustration. When she finally leaned back, he wrapped them both in the thickness of their cloaks. His hands came to rest on top of hers, folded across her abdomen.

Sensations washed over her: the steeliness of the muscles of his chest, the lean strength of his legs stretched out on either side of her. His powerful arms around her exuded warm comfort, and his hands . . . his wonderful hands! She inhaled softly, the bay rum and spices she remembered from before teasing her nose.

She sighed, and Erik smiled. This was the correct choice, to remain here and not attempt to walk the several miles to Giselle's. They sat in companionable silence, listening to the crackling of the fire. Gradually he felt her body relax and when he looked down, Veronique was asleep.

Leaning his head back, Erik closed his eyes. Sleep would not come easily to him, he knew, not with her in his arms, held tightly against him. Slowly he blew out a breath, taking care not to disturb her. My face does not seem to matter to her, he thought in wonderment, and not for the first time. No one takes much notice of it—not Giselle, not the men here. They all treat me like a . . . normal man.

* * *

Erik woke some time later, savoring the dream he'd been having—he and Veronique walking down the street, holding hands. His backside numb from sitting on the hearth, his feet tingling from lack of circulation, he smothered a groan when he remembered their situation. He looked down and felt his heart squeeze. Veronique had turned sideways in her sleep and now she lay against him, the collar of his shirt clutched in one hand. He trailed a fingertip down her cheek and she made a soft sound of pleasure and snuggled closer.

Hating to wake her, he pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "Veronique?" She made no reply and he jostled her a bit. "Wake up, chaton; I need to stand up and stoke the fire," he murmured.

"Erik?" Her sleepy voice evoked images he would rather not think about at the moment. Moving the cloaks aside, he scooted away from her and awkwardly got to his feet. He bent over and wrapped the cloaks securely around her. Briskly he rubbed his arms and legs and backside, trying to rid them of the sensation of pins and needles.

"What time is it?" mumbled Veronique, trying to sit up.

Erik pulled his watch out of his trouser pocket and squinted at it. "Not quite four o'clock," he told her. Taking several logs from the pile in the corner, he laid them carefully in the fireplace, making sure to leave enough space between them so they would catch fire easily. "I think before it becomes completely dark outside, I need to bring in more wood. See if you can find some empty pails that we can fill with snow."

Yawning, she asked, "Why do we want to bring snow inside?" She clambered to her feet and stretched, unaware of Erik's eyes watching her every move. When he didn't answer, she turned and repeated her question. "Why do we need to bring in snow in pails?"

Erik jerked his gaze away from her, hoping she had not seen him staring. "It will melt and we will have something to drink," he said absently.

"Oh, yes, of course! How silly of me," she murmured. "I think I saw some in one of the storage rooms." Picking up a candle from Robilliard's desk while Erik carried in an armful of wood, she went out and returned a few minutes later with two large metal pails. "They were empty, but I wiped them anyway," she said.

Erik took them and started for the front doors. Back over his shoulder he said, "In the cubbyhole behind my work table is the food I brought with me this morning. As soon as some of the snow melts, we'll eat."

Moments later he returned, shivering with cold, both pails piled high with snow. Setting them close enough to the fire to begin melting, he dried his hands on a cloth Veronique handed him. "Let me warm my hands a minute, chérie, and then we'll eat," he said, holding his hands out to the flames gratefully.

She spread another cloth on the hearth and sank down next to it. "Oh, how wonderful! Two of Giselle's special croissants and some cheese." She gave Erik one of the flaky rolls and took a bite from the other, moaning in appreciation as it seemed to melt in her mouth.

He broke off a corner of the cheese and handed it to her, popping another small chunk in his mouth. Spying a mug sitting on Robilliard's desk, he retrieved it and checked the status of the snow. "Here, hold this and I'll try to pour out some of the water," he told her, adding, "I only wish it were wine, chérie."

Veronique blanched a little, to his surprise. "I have found that I really do not care for wine," she murmured. "Water is better, for me, anyway."

They ate in silence, passing the cup between them. When they had finished, Erik said, "You looked upset when you arrived today. What happened, chaton?"

Sighing, she leaned against the corner of the fireplace and watched the flames dance for a moment. "I received a note from M. Bertrand's housekeeper today. He has a bad case of influenza and will not be able to come for my lesson next week. I had been so looking forward to his visit, both simply to see him and hear the news from Auxerre, and to tell him I am working for M. Vuillaume now, thanks to him."

"He is expected to recover, isn't he? He is not so ill that he might . . ." Seeing her chin quiver slightly made Erik curse his thoughtlessness. "Come here, ma petite," he crooned, pulling her into his arms. "As soon as we get back to Giselle's, we will send a reply to the housekeeper, asking her to keep you informed of his condition. All right?"

Veronique nodded, and he felt her hair brushing the underside of his chin. He began to hum, and after a minute or two, she relaxed against him. "Chérie?" he murmured. "If you like, perhaps I could help you with your lessons—just until M. Bertrand is well enough to resume teaching you."

"Oh, Erik, would you?" She sat up and looked at him, so much hope in her eyes that he would have promised her the moon at that moment. Then she ducked her head, murmuring, "I wanted to ask you, but I . . . didn't want to presume . . . You play so wonderfully, and I still have so much to learn."

"It is no hardship to play with you, chaton. I only wish some of the musicians . . . elsewhere had been so talented."

* * *

Ha! Found her at last! And the freak, too

. Guy Duchense ducked out of sight, moving to one side of the window in the front of Vuillaume's violin-making shop. For the past few days he had tailed Veronique, but in order not to look conspicuous, he had not followed her all the way to her destination. Today's heavy snowfall had helped immensely, getting nearly everyone off the streets.

After eavesdropping on them at the boarding house, Guy had called in a favor or two and had information that he planned to use to blackmail "the ghost". And oh, how he was going to enjoy getting even! But first, I'm gonna get me a good, long taste of that girl. She's bound to be a better piece than the old woman.

Footsteps approached the door, and Guy darted around the corner. Turning his head slightly, he saw the ugly bastard packing snow into a couple of pails. Duchense's hand went to the knife at his waist. I could get him out of the way now, maybe, and then have a turn or two at the girl. He considered it for a few moments then decided he would wait and make a better plan. No, I want them all to sweat and worry over this. Gotta think it out carefully. Don't want no mistakes.

He rubbed his wrist absently, still feeling some pain from where he'd landed on it, the night the old bitch had him thrown out of the boarding house. He couldn't hold a lock pick for any length of time, and someone was going to pay for that. Don't matter who, but somebody's gonna pay for it.


	16. Chapter 16

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: We see Erik at his most Phantomy toward the end of this chapter... :-) I hope you all will enjoy it...**

Chapter Sixteen

The sound of wagon wheels creaking roused Erik from a fitful sleep. Twice during the night, he had gotten up to stoke the fire, realizing the last time that the wind had stopped howling down the chimney. Carefully he had made his way to the front windows, but had been able to see very little save that it appeared to have stopped snowing.

Now he groped on the floor for his watch and held it up to the faint light of the fire. A few minutes before six in the morning. We should have scoured this place for some cushions or towels or blankets that we could have sat on, he thought grumpily.

"Erik?" Veronique breathed. "What time is it?"

Bending his head slightly, he pressed a kiss to her temple. "Just before six," he told her softly. "Try to go back to sleep, chérie." He didn't know if it happened in the course of the last few hours, or if it had been creeping up on him for weeks, but he feared that he was falling head-over-heels in love with this young woman.

She squirmed a bit, muttering "Cold" before she found the position she wanted. Curled up on one side, one hand resting on his chest, her head fit very comfortably on his shoulder. Sighing, she drifted back to sleep, leaving Erik to wonder yet again how he found himself so blessed.

* * *

The faint sound of a voice and the front door squeaking open woke them a couple of hours later. Erik scrambled to his feet and helped Veronique stand. Shrugging into his cloak, he whispered, "Stay here, until I find out who it is."

She nodded and he went to the door, easing it open a couple of inches. "It's Robilliard," he murmured, and stepped out, closing the door behind him. "M. Robilliard!" Erik called to him and walked through main room toward the door. "How were you able to get here?"

Robilliard arched an eyebrow at him then replied, "The sun is shining, and the snow is actually melting, although the omnibuses are still not running. We will not work today, but you should be able to make it back to your lodgings now. I merely came to ensure that the temperature in the wood storage room did not drop too low." With that, he turned and moved away.

When Erik entered the room where he and Veronique had spent the night, she was fastening the ties of the hood of her cloak securely under her chin. "I heard him say the sun was out and the snow is melting," she said. "I am ready to try to walk to Giselle's. I do not want to spend one minute longer in these clothes than absolutely necessary!"

Realizing what she had said, a very becoming blush rose on her cheeks and Erik smiled.

"Yes, I would be very appreciative of a hot bath, myself," he murmured. Offering his arm, they walked out into glaringly bright sunshine.

"Oh," sighed Veronique. "How lovely and pure the snow makes everything seem." Holding her skirts up so they would not drag in the snow required both hands, and reluctantly she released her grip on his arm. "Sometimes I wish . . ." she muttered.

As they made their way slowly down the street, Erik had the distinct feeling of being watched, as though he were in someone's gun sight. Glancing over his shoulder in an attempt to find the culprit, he didn't hear her at first. "I'm sorry, chérie; what did you say?"

"Oh, nothing." She huffed out a breath in disgust. "It's just that sometimes I wish I could wear trousers like a man, rather than these bothersome skirts and petticoats."

Erik's imagination galloped away with him as he envisioned the sweet backside that had been snuggled up against him for most of the night encased in a pair of trousers. He made a choking sound, and she shot him a worried look. "I'm fine," he gasped, and coughed as if clearing his throat.

They continued in relative silence, the squeak of their boots against the snow the only sound until Veronique asked if they could stop for a moment. He stood as close to her as possible, constantly scanning their surroundings, but seeing no one. Pacing a short distance away, he stood with his hands cupped around his eyes, trying to shield them from the glare of the sun on the snow.

Without warning, something cold and wet caught him on the back of the head. Erik whipped around, crouching slightly to ward off his attacker, when he heard Veronique laugh merrily. "What in God's name are you doing?" he shouted at her, trying to keep the snow from running down inside his collar.

"Oh, Erik," she said when she could speak, "have you never had a snowball fight?" Bending over, she packed more snow into a ball and tossed it at him. It landed on his boot.

"No, I—" was all he managed to say before another snowball struck him, this time in the chest.

He merely stared at it as it slid down his body, and when he raised his eyes, Veronique knew she was in for the fight of her life. She giggled, and immediately began to make and throw snowballs as fast as possible. Her laughter was infectious, and he felt a smile cross his face. Erik lobbed a few of his own projectiles and scored a couple of direct hits, laughing softly when Veronique squealed in outrage. It felt good to laugh. Closing the distance between them, he grabbed her arms and prevented her from launching the weapons she held.

"You little vixen," he murmured, his voice heavy with laughter. Staring into her big green eyes, he saw amusement, and . . . something he could not, or would not, give a name. Not yet. "Thanks to you, Mademoiselle, we now have to walk the rest of the way to Giselle's with damp clothing. We will be quite fortunate if we don't catch our death of—"

He was never certain how she did it, but she managed to mash one of her last snowballs right in his face. "Gah!" he exclaimed, releasing her and backing away.

Helpless with laughter, Veronique dropped her remaining snowball and leaned against the wrought-iron fence next to the sidewalk. "Oh, Erik," she said between giggles. "The look on your face!"

He grunted, wiping his face with as much dignity as he could muster. "Seriously, chaton, we must not dawdle, not with damp clothing in this cold weather. We need to hurry back to Giselle's." He looked around them and added, "From here we probably have an hour's walk ahead of us."

Reluctantly she agreed, knowing he was correct. As they walked, she thought about the man beside her. As Giselle said, a very unusual man. So much talent, but he is not comfortable around people. Or at least, very few people. He can be very sweet, she mused, thinking of him with the cats. A shudder ran down her spine as she remembered how he had acted the night Giselle was attacked—the cold fury that she sensed he held just barely in check.

"Chérie?" His voice sent another shiver down her spine, but not from fear. A sensation of warmth spread outward from her belly and dreamily she closed her eyes. "Veronique, are you all right?" He touched her shoulder and she realized she had stopped walking.

She opened her eyes immediately and gave him a slight smile. "Yes, I'm fine," she said quickly and resumed trudging through the snow.

By the time they finally arrived at the boarding house, both were shivering with the cold. Erik helped Veronique up the front stairs and into the house, and they both groaned when the warm air hit them. "I'm not sure— I can feel my toes," Veronique stuttered as they stood just inside the front door.

"Oh, mes enfantes, you are all right! Merci a le bon Dieu!" exclaimed Giselle as she bustled down the hall. She hugged them both then stepped back, a worried look on her face. "Why, you are nearly frozen! Come into the kitchen this minute and warm up," she ordered, taking Veronique by the arm and nearly dragging her away.

Erik trailed in their wake, smiling as Giselle chattered on about how delighted André had been with the snowfall. It is good to be home, he thought. With a start he realized that he did think of this house as his home now. That made him feel warm inside.

"Here, mes chéries, sit down and have some hot chocolate. It will help warm you from the inside out." Giselle plunked two big mugs on the table and retrieved a saucepan from the stove. After filling the mugs with the steaming liquid, she loaded a plate with croissants and set it before them. "Eat, eat!" she urged them. "You need to regain your strength after such a long walk in the cold."

Veronique drank about half her chocolate before she moved to unfasten her cloak. "You are right, as usual, Giselle. I feel much warmer now." Reaching toward the plate of flaky rolls, she picked one up and took a bite. "I do not believe that I have ever eaten anything that tasted better," she murmured.

Her gaze met Erik's over the rim of his mug, and suddenly she felt flushed, like with a fever. And it had nothing to do with the hot chocolate or the heat from the stove. Something in his eyes made her want to fan her face. She dropped her gaze to the table and fought not to squirm in her chair.

At that moment André burst in, exclaiming, "M. Erik! Mlle. Veronique! Where were you last night?"

Out of the mouths of babes, thought Erik wryly. Before he could think of an acceptable answer, Giselle upbraided the boy for his impertinence and sent him to his room.

When he was out of earshot, she turned to them and said, "Others will ask the same question. What will you tell them?" When neither answered her, she grunted. "You had best think of some explanation, just in case."

"Ouch!" A sharp pain in her leg made Veronique look down. "What in the world?"

Samson sat at her feet, one fat paw caught in her skirts, glaring up at her as if to say, Why weren't you here last night? No one paid any attention to me.

Crooning to him, she untangled his claws and he leaped into her lap, making her breath leave her in a whoosh. "I am sorry, mon chèr ami," she whispered. "Forgive me for deserting you." She ran her hands down his back and he purred loudly. "I will certainly warm up quickly now," she remarked to Erik and Giselle, who both smiled.

"Do not forget, chérie, we need to write that note to M. Bertrand's housekeeper." Erik rose and carried his mug to the sink and rinsed it. "I'll bring a sheet of paper and a pen and ink down from my room."

He returned a few minutes later, those items in one hand and Marguerite cradled in his other arm. "You are not the only one who was missed last night," he said teasingly to Veronique. "Marguerite was curled up on my bed, waiting for me."

A few days later

When Erik arrived home from work, a letter was lying on the kitchen table. It bore no name on the outside of the folded paper, and he paid very little attention to it until Giselle handed it to him. "A strange man brought this to the door today, saying it was intended for you." Seeing the scowl forming on Erik's face, she added, "I did not allow him inside. I left the chain attached and he handed it to me through the opening."

His thoughts racing, Erik turned the paper over and over. "You did not recognize this man?"

Giselle shook her head negatively. "No, but I can describe him to you. He was . . . unkempt, although he had no noticeable odor about him—no food odors or . . . anything else. He was shorter than you; his head would probably have reached your shoulder. Dark hair and a beard desperately in need of trimming, workman's clothes, faded cloth cap. His eyes were set very close together, and kept darting around, as if he expected someone to jump out at him from the shadows."

Erik grunted. "Be certain to tell me if you see him around here again, Giselle." Stuffing the note into his pocket, he went up to his room and closed the door.

Cautiously he broke the seal and unfolded the paper. It took him a moment to decipher the contents—the penmanship was ghastly, to say the least. Frowning, Erik sat on his bed and read the note through twice. With a short bark of laughter, he tossed the paper to the floor.

The note was unsigned, of course, but he knew who had sent it. "Oh, Duchense," sighed Erik, "you're going to have to do better than that." Picking up the note, he read it aloud. " 'I know who you are—or rather who you used to be. Leave 500 francs at the northwest corner of the Opéra Populaire by 5 o'clock in the afternoon of the day after tomorrow, and I'll keep what I know to myself. Otherwise . . .' "

Lying back on the bed, Erik stacked his hands behind his head and crossed one ankle over the other. He pondered and discarded several possibilities before he smiled wickedly. "Yes, that will be perfect," he decided. "I should easily be able to buy what Giselle might not have on hand."

He sat up and made a mental list of the items he would need. The day after tomorrow would give him plenty of time to prepare. He grinned. Too bad Giselle won't be able to witness this.

At five o'clock in the afternoon, two days later, Erik sat in his hiding place at the ruined Opera House, waiting for Duchense to arrive. He had placed a burlap bag under a small pile of stones, leaving a corner peeking out for Duchense to notice.

Ah, there he is, and right on time, mused Erik as a clock nearby chimed the hour. He stifled a laugh as Duchense looked over his shoulder twice and in every direction possible before kneeling down in front of the stones. Never fear, little man, only the two of us are here.

Erik watched as Duchense tore open the bag and rifled through the contents. The one-time thief and would-be rapist howled in outrage when he pulled out a stack of newspaper that had been cut into the size of franc-notes and bundled together. Suddenly he dropped the bundle he'd been holding and began to scratch madly at the palms of his hands.

From his vantage point Erik could see that Duchense's hands were swelling rapidly, already to the point that he could not make a fist if he tried. "You bloody bastard!" raged the little man. "You think you're so smart—you won't get away with this! I swear to you, you'll pay!"

Deep, rolling, nearly maniacal laughter filled the burned-out ruins of the Opera House. "You think so, eh, Duchense? Do you really think that you can blackmail me?" That set the voice off in gales of laughter.

Duchense whirled around when suddenly the voice seemed to come from right behind him. "Far better men than you have tried, Duchense—tried and failed, just as you will. No one threatens the Opera Ghost and lives to tell the tale. Remember that."

What little remained of the thief's bravado deserted him and he fled as though all the demons in Hell were chasing him, the laughter ringing in his ears and echoing off the remains of the building.

After a few moments Erik climbed down, a wide grin on his face as he envisioned Duchense still running. I suppose I should decide on his next punishment, he thought. I'm sure he will gather his courage and try again. He chuckled. Perhaps a sneezing fit this time . . .


	17. Chapter 17

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: A bit more of the Phantom... Duchense is doggedly (stupidly!) persistent... definitely not the brightest bulb in the box... ;-) Also, a hint of Erik's background.**

Chapter Seventeen

M. Bertrand's housekeeper responded by return post to Veronique's letter, saying that the monsieur was feeling better, although he still had a slight fever at times and a bad cough. She told Veronique she was doing her best to him "under wraps" until he was completely out of danger.

Veronique replied with a warning for her teacher—M. Bertrand would behave himself and do exactly as the housekeeper said, or she, Veronique, would travel to Auxerre and then he would have two women nagging at him instead of one. With Giselle's blessing, she also included that lady's recipe for chicken soup.

In the meantime, Erik was proving to be a demanding teacher. He insisted that Veronique play new and more difficult pieces, defying her to stretch her abilities. She found it frustrating at first, and on one occasion they exchanged heated words.

"I cannot play this!" she shouted, springing up from her chair. "No matter how many different ways I try to work through it, my fingers are constantly tangled." She put her bow and cello aside and stomped to the parlor window, staring out at the clear night sky.

Propping his hands on his hips, Erik sighed. "So you are giving up, just like that? You are abandoning your dream to be the best cellist in France, perhaps all of Europe? Just because this new piece has challenged you?" He shook his head. "I thought better of you, Veronique."

Incensed, she whirled around, her eyes narrowed in anger. "You—you thought better of me? Am I not allowed to be human, to be tired and . . ." Seeing the tiny smirk on his face, she marched to him and poked him in the chest. "Oh, I could kick you," she muttered, fighting the urge to do just that.

"Pardonnez-moi, chérie. It's just that . . . I see so much potential in you, Veronique. Forgive me if I was a little . . . devious in my method of getting you to realize that." He handed her the bow and said, "Work on this passage for ten more minutes, then I think that will be enough for tonight."

By the time he called a halt to their session, she had mastered the section that had bedeviled her, and Erik said, "I knew you could do it, chaton." She glared at him, and he bit back a chuckle. "I will try to tread more carefully next time, I promise," he told her.

* * *

Things were going well at work. Erik had completed his first violin, and when he played it for the others at the shop, Veronique dabbed at tears. The workmen and Robilliard applauded and Erik gave them one of his rare smiles. Little did they know that M. Vuillaume was also listening, until he came into the room and shook Erik's hand. "We shall have to watch this one, Robilliard, and make sure that he does not leave us and go into business for himself." He took the violin and looked at it carefully, then handed it back to Erik. "Very good work indeed."

Stunned, it took Erik a moment to find his voice. "Merci, M. Vuillaume! Never think that I would—please, believe me. I have no interest in leaving here."

* * *

That evening during her lesson, Veronique made so many mistakes that Erik stopped her after only a few minutes. "What is wrong, chérie? I have never heard you play so poorly." He crouched down at her side and touched her arm.

She handed him her bow and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from her skirt pocket. "Giselle said a young boy brought this to the house for me today."

Knowing in his gut who had sent it, Erik took the paper and unfolded it. Indeed, it was the same poor penmanship as before. I know you spent the night alone with a man. Bring 250 francs to the Café Bonhomie at 5 in the afternoon tomorrow or I'll tell your employers just what kind of girl you are.

Erik surged to his feet, cursing virulently in several languages. Veronique could feel the anger radiating from him. "Do—do you know who sent it?" she asked in a small voice.

"Yes," he growled, "I know who is responsible for this . . . ordures. Leave this to me, chaton. I will take care of it, if you will allow me?"

Nodding, she stood and laid her cello on its side. Before he could guess her intent, she slid her arms around his waist and held him tightly for several moments. "Be careful, Erik, please?" Her voice muffled against his chest, she added, "I don't want to lose you, too."

Slowly he folded his arms around her and let his scarred cheek rest on top of her head. "Don't worry, ma chérie, I will be very careful." I have you and Giselle to come home to.

* * *

The next afternoon at the appointed time, Erik stood in a dark doorway across the street from the café, waiting for Duchense to arrive. His fists clenching and unclenching, Erik strove to keep his temper under control. It was proving more difficult with each passing minute. In the inside pocket of his cloak was a small leather bag, containing not the money Duchense had demanded, but another 'surprise'.

Erik glanced again at the café door and saw his quarry lurking outside. Taking advantage of a wagon moving down the street, he slipped up behind the little man. His fingers itched to reach for the lasso he also had in his cloak, but he resisted the temptation—barely. "It appears you did not learn your lesson the first time, Duchense," Erik said, his voice oily smooth.

The would-be blackmailer squeaked and jumped six inches in the air when his belt buckle spoke to him. "Fils de putain!" he exclaimed, looking anxiously in all directions but seeing no one close enough to have been the speaker.

The voice came from behind him now and he whirled around, his eyes widening comically at the sight of a tall figure in black towering over him. "As I told you before, blackmailing me will only cause you pain, cafard. And trying to blackmail the mademoiselle . . ." The figure tsked and shook his head in disbelief. "Stupidity incarnate!"

"What makes you think I haven't gone to the police and told them where you live, you ugly bastard?" The last word ended in a gurgle as Erik's hand shot out and grabbed Duchense around the throat, lifting him off his feet.

"Two very simple reasons. They have not shown up on my doorstep. And, you have a sufficiently bad reputation that I doubt very much whether they would believe you, if you did go to them. You are not the only one with sources of information in Paris, salaud. Oh, and by the way, my parents were married when I was born." He gave Duchense a little shake and dropped him.

His hand clutching his throat, the little man did not see Erik reach into his cloak and pull out the small bag. It landed with a 'clink' on the sidewalk next to him.

Bending down until they were eye to eye, Erik said softly, "Leave the mademoiselle alone, Duchense. Or you will die a horribly painful death. Mark my words carefully. This is the last warning you will receive." With that, he turned on his heel and vanished into the darkness.

Duchense leaned back against the building. He took several gasping breaths, coughed and spat. Finally he noticed the bag sitting beside him and picked it up, grinning as he heard what sounded like coins striking each other. He opened it cautiously, finding only the pieces of a small glass bottle in the bottom. No sooner had he turned the bag inside out and watched a powdery substance float away in the wind than he began to sneeze, violently, and without ceasing.

* * *

A week passed without further incident, and Veronique received a note from M. Bertrand himself, stating that he would travel to the city for her lesson a week from Saturday, if that would be convenient for her. Ecstatically she replied that it would, and provided him directions to Giselle's.

Erik watched bemusedly as the women scrubbed the house from top to bottom in honor of M. Bertrand's visit. When he foolishly commented about all the fuss, he received three glaring looks and decided a retreat to his already cleaned room was in order. Taking out his violin, he played whatever came to mind, hoping it would soothe the tempers of anyone listening. Unaware that he had brought the cleaning to an abrupt halt, he continued to play for more than an hour, until Marguerite demanded his attention.

* * *

"Oh, he is here!" exclaimed Veronique, throwing open the front door and launching herself at her teacher. "Oh, Monsieur, I am so happy to see you! Please, come in and meet Giselle." She grabbed the silver-haired man by the arm and dragged him inside, chattering all the while.

When he was finally able to free his hands from her grasp, M. Bertrand removed his top hat and unwound the scarf from his throat, handing them to Veronique. "Child, stop and take a breath! We have plenty of time to visit. You do not need to tell me all the news in the first few minutes," he admonished her good-naturedly.

Blushing, she ducked her head for a moment then said, "This is Giselle Tremaine, my landlady. Giselle, M. Alphonse Bertrand, my cello teacher and an old friend of my maman."

M. Bertrand reached for Giselle's hand and placed a kiss on the back, murmuring, "Enchanté, Madame."

The twinkle in his eye made Giselle smile in return; she recognized a charmer when she saw one. "I am so very happy to meet you at last, Monsieur. Veronique speaks of you frequently, and most fondly."

At the sound of a boot on the stairs, Veronique went to bring Erik into the foyer. "M. Bertrand, this is Erik, my friend, who has been teaching me while you were ill. Erik, this is M. Bertrand."

The two shook hands solemnly and took each other's measure in a glance. "You are a musician, Monsieur?" asked the older man. A part of him bristled at the thought of someone else teaching Veronique. What bad habits has she acquired in my absence?

"Yes, M. Bertrand. I have been playing the violin since I was a very small boy." Erik smiled to himself; he knew exactly what the portly man was thinking. "Perhaps, before you begin Veronique's lesson, we could play something for you?" Judge for yourself, old man.

They adjourned to the parlor and Veronique sat down. Erik nodded to her and she began playing her father's favorite folk song. After the first verse, Erik began a countermelody, and out of the corner of his eye saw M. Bertrand's mouth drop open in surprise.

When they finished, Veronique exclaimed, "Another new countermelody!" At M. Bertrand's puzzled look, she added, "Every time we play that song, he makes up a new countermelody—as we are playing! No two are ever the same."

M. Bertrand sat back in his chair, studying Erik closely. He reminds me of someone! Suddenly aware of the expectant silence filling the room, he said, "My apologies, Monsieur. You are indeed a fine musician."

By the end of the lesson, M. Bertrand was astounded at the progress Veronique had made since their last session. "Ma fille, you have made such remarkable progress. If Erik is willing to continue teaching you, I believe you could have no better instructor." Seeing the girl's eyes fill with tears, he added quickly, "I will still come once a month, to monitor your progress, and give you extra tutoring if I feel it is necessary."

* * *

Alphonse Bertrand sat in his cozy study, toasting his toes and watching the flames dance on the hearth. Pleasantly full after his Sunday lunch, he dozed for a bit. After his recent bout of influenza, he found that he did not have as much energy as before. His trip to Paris and back the day before had left him tired, but not overly so.

As he contemplated the flames, he realized that something was nagging at the back of his mind. Methodically he thought through yesterday's events. Veronique had been overjoyed to see him, hugging him fiercely, he remembered. She had introduced him to her landlady, a quite gracious woman, and also to a fellow boarder, a tall, reserved gentleman with many scars on one side of his face. Veronique said the man had been helping her while he, Alphonse, had been recovering.

Alphonse sat up in his chair with a jerk. "He reminded me of someone I know," he muttered, "but, who?" Grumbling, he unwound the afghan from his legs and stood. Hands clasped behind his back, he began to pace.

He stopped to turn around and his gaze fell on a small pen and ink sketch sitting on a shelf. Done just after his final performance at the Conservatoire, Alphonse and another student stood holding their instruments, cello and violin, respectively. They had shared the graduation concert, performing a duet.

Alphonse felt his jaw drop and he picked up the frame to study it more closely. "Sacré bleu!" he whispered. "That is who the young man reminded me of! He is the very image of Gérard Duvalier."

Making his way back to his chair, Alphonse sat down and stared again at the flames on the hearth. He and Gérard had been the top two students in their class at the Conservatoire. Constantly challenging each other, they had competed not only in their music classes, but for the pretty girls who came to the student concerts. Alphonse frowned as he recalled that Gérard had married almost immediately after completing his studies; the couple had been blessed with only one child, a daughter. Regrettably, he had lost contact with his friend after the child was born.

He looked again at the sketch. "He looks enough like you to be your twin, Gérard," murmured Alphonse, "save for the scars on his right cheek. And he plays even better than you did. His countermelody was pure genius." The two of them have to be related somehow. There can be no other explanation. "Who at the Conservatoire would have the information I seek?"

Going to his desk, he pulled out a slim volume and leafed through the pages, smiling as he remembered some of the antics of his classmates. Several had died, but one or two still remained on the faculty. Henri will know, I'll wager, Alphonse decided. I'll send him a note and ask if I may come and visit him.

* * *

Ordures—garbage

Cafard—cockroach

Salaud—skunk, scoundrel


	18. Chapter 18

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: My apologies for the 'delay'-- life intruded yesterday and ... we have a bit more of Erik's background here...**

Chapter Eighteen

Alphonse traveled to Paris the next week and spent a very pleasant day with his friend Henri Herz1. Still teaching at the Conservatoire, Henri was the type of person everyone found easy to talk with. As far as Alphonse knew, Henri had never betrayed a confidence.

"Alphonse, mon ami! How long has it been since we last spoke? Much too long." Henri instructed the housekeeper to bring them some tea and gestured to the chair across from him. "What brings you to Paris on such a bright sunny day? I would have thought that you would be out digging in your garden."

Waiting until the housekeeper had set down the tea tray and departed, Alphonse laughed wryly. "Ah, you know me too well, Henri. I had a bout of influenza recently that has kept me a prisoner in my own home. But I will be out there very soon." He took a sip of tea and set the cup and saucer aside. "I wanted to ask you about Gérard."

The other man frowned and stared at the contents of his cup. "Amazing, is it not, how two people—friends—living in the same city can lose touch with each other?" Sighing, he put his cup on the table in front of him and sat back in his chair. "When was the last time you spoke to him?"

"I called on Eléonore and him, just after the baby was born. I heard later that they were not able to have any more children. Shamefully, I must admit that I did not make enough of an effort to remain in contact with him."

Henri sighed again. "Catharine, the daughter, became Gérard's entire life. He lavished attention on her and insisted that she take voice lessons. She sang exquisitely, by the way. When she was seventeen, she fell in love with a student at the Académie de Paris, an aspiring writer. They married in secret, and when Gérard discovered it—Sainte Mère! I am surprised that the shouting could not have been heard all the way to Normandy."

"Yes, he did have a fearsome temper, didn't he?" Alphonse shook his head with a tiny smile. "I suppose he issued orders, threatened annulment, things of that nature?"

Henri took a sip of his tea before answering. "Yes, all that and more. Catharine simply disappeared one night, never to be seen or heard from again. For a time I thought Gérard would go mad. He swore to tear the city apart, searching for them." He gave Alphonse a pointed look. "Why the sudden interest, may I ask?"

Alphonse leaned forward in his chair. "Recently, I met a young man who could be Gérard's twin. His resemblance to Gérard is uncanny—except the right side of his face is horribly scarred. And not from the recent war. You should hear him play the violin, Henri. He is a musical genius. Pure genius, I tell you."

"So," said Henri slowly, "do you believe that this young man is Gérard's grandson, that he is Catharine's child?"

Alphonse was silent for several long moments then he nodded decisively. "Yes, I am convinced that he is. But how to prove it? This young man, Erik, seemed quite . . . a private person. I had the distinct feeling that he does not . . . allow many people to get close to him." Seeing Henri's frown, he asked, "What is it?"

"His name is Erik?" The other man sat up straight in his chair. "That was the name of the fellow Catharine married—Erik Vangilder, a Dutchman, I believe. God knows, Gérard cursed the name often enough that I will remember it after I am dead."

Alphonse laughed softly. "Well, mon ami, it looks as though I am about to begin a second career, and at my age—detective!"

"What precisely do you hope to find? Gérard's men were able to discover nothing. And if this young man is as . . . reserved as you say, it is highly unlikely that he will reveal anything to you." Henri fell silent for a moment then added, "Gérard died with many regrets, Alphonse. Perhaps . . . perhaps you should let the past rest in peace."

* * *

His return trip to Auxerre passed in a blur. His thoughts tumbling this way and that, Alphonse was unaware of the train stopping at the station until the conductor spoke to him.

"M. Bertrand, do you wish to continue to Dijon?" When Alphonse did not respond, the conductor touched him on the shoulder. "M. Bertrand?"

"What? Pardon? Oh, we are here already? Merci, Monsieur." Gathering his coat and hat, Alphonse stood and made his way to the door. Once he had disembarked, he walked slowly home, his head down as he pondered all that he had learned from Henri.

Perhaps I should let sleeping dogs lie, he thought. But will I be able to do so?

* * *

Two weeks later

Erik and Veronique arrived home at the end of a sunny, warm early March day to find M. Bertrand and Giselle sitting in the parlor, laughing over their tea.

"Mes chéries, come in and join us," Giselle called to them as they hung up their cloaks. "Alphonse has been telling me about playing in the Orchestre de la Société des Concerts du Conservatoire." She dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "Oh," she sighed, pressing one hand to her side, "I cannot remember when I have laughed so hard." Standing, she checked the teapot and clucked her tongue. "This has gone cold," she muttered. She picked up the tray and said to Veronique, "Come, chérie, and we'll brew a fresh pot."

An awkward silence filled the room after their departure, neither man quite at ease with the other. Finally Alphonse cleared his throat and spoke. "Merci for helping Veronique while I was . . . indisposed. Her improvement from one lesson to the next was astonishing."

Erik merely inclined his head in reply; he could tell the older man was leading up to something entirely different.

After clearing his throat again, Alphonse continued, "But I did not come here today simply for that." He picked up a small object lying atop his coat. "I have been warned that I may be venturing into something that is none of my business. Since I was last here, I have been arguing with myself constantly about the wisdom of pursuing this." He stopped and looked down at the small picture frame he held.

"However, it will not leave me in peace." Handing the frame to Erik, he explained, "This sketch was drawn in 1821, after my graduation concert from the Conservatoire. I am convinced that the man standing next to me . . . is your grand-père."

Stunned, Erik stared at the figure holding a violin. It was like looking at his own face, except this man's right cheek was smooth and perfect, not mottled with bumps and sunken places. Then he remembered his maman's last year, coughing and wheezing with consumption until not even the Gypsy remedies could give her ease.

With a low growl he surged to his feet, tossing the picture frame aside. "Pardon, Monsieur, but I cannot forget how my maman suffered in the final year of her life, how her father abandoned her years before when she married my papa," Erik said, his tone icy and hard. "I do not want to know anything about this man you believe is my grand-père. Good day to you, Monsieur." He bowed stiffly and left the room, not seeing Veronique and Giselle standing in the hallway.

He stormed up the stairs to his tiny room and closed the door. His steps carried him to the window and his thumb unerringly found the initials he had carved in the sill so long ago. "Oh, Maman!" he whispered, his breath catching on a sob.

Something brushed against him and he looked down to see Marguerite twining around his feet. "Merci, chaton," he murmured, and scooped her up, rubbing her head with his chin.

In his head Erik heard his maman's voice, raspy from coughing. She had insisted on talking, telling him things when she should have been resting. You look very much like your grand-père, but you have your papa's sweet disposition. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut, he was unaware of the tears streaming down his face until Marguerite mewed softly. With a shaky laugh he set her on the floor. "Pardon, chérie."

He walked to the bed and sat down, wiping his face on his shirtsleeve. "You are not the first cat who has befriended me," he told her. "When we went to live with the Gypsies, a solid gray cat used to let me—and only me—hold it occasionally." Marguerite leaped onto the bed and curled up in Erik's lap, purring softly. "But he was not as friendly as you, mon petite amie."

* * *

Erik did not appear for dinner and Giselle set a plate on the back of the stove for him, just in case. The door to his room remained tightly closed and finally she banked the fire in the stove and went to bed.

The clock had just chimed midnight when Erik realized that he could ignore his empty stomach no longer. Silently he made his way down to the kitchen and found Veronique in her customary place at the table, Samson in her lap.

She gestured to the stove. "Giselle left a plate for you," she told him quietly.

"I will be certain to thank her tomorrow." Erik leaned against the sink, holding the plate in front of him as he ate, savoring the taste of the beef and potatoes.

Veronique waited until he had finished before she said, "We—Giselle and I— heard the last part of what you said to M. Bertrand." Samson fidgeted, sensing the tension in the room and she scratched him under his chin. "My—my maman died of consumption, too, so . . . I know a little of what you went through," she whispered. "The doctors feared I would catch it, and they wouldn't allow me in the same room with her."

Sighing deeply, Erik pulled a chair out from the table and sat down. "She died when I was six years old," he said in a low, expressionless voice. "Many times since then I have wondered why I didn't get sick, too. I spent every moment with her that I could. She told me that my father died within a few days of their marriage and she returned to Paris. Not long afterward she realized she was . . . carrying me."

He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. "We lived in this house until she got too sick to continue working as a seamstress. That was about a year before she died. I don't remember how we ended up living with the Gypsies. An old Gypsy woman cared for me until she died also, about a year after Maman."

Suddenly unable to speak past the lump in his throat, he got up and pumped some water into his hand, splashing it on his face. Dabbing it with the back of his hand, he stared out the small window above the sink. "The men of the tribe decided then it was time for me to 'earn my keep'. I played the violin . . . until one of them had a brilliant idea." He said nothing for several minutes, lost in memories, his hands clenching and unclenching.

Samson made a noise of protest when Veronique put him on the floor and stood. Carefully she approached Erik, stopping a few feet away. "I cannot imagine what that life must have been like," she whispered. "I promise not to tell anyone what you've told me tonight." Tentatively she reached out and laid her hand on his forearm.

Much to her surprise, his hand covered hers and squeezed. "Merci, ma chérie." After a moment he continued, "There is not much more to tell. Maman had made a mask for me to wear when we were out among other people, but she was adamant that I not wear it when it was just the two of us."

With a sinking heart, Veronique knew what he was about to say. "Oh, no, Erik!"

"Yes, the wonderful idea was to . . . put me on display in a cage." Veronique muffled a cry with her free hand and he gave her a sad smile. "But I had my revenge, finally. I ran away when I was twelve and traveled through the Mediterranean and . . . other places until I returned to Paris ten years ago."

Veronique disentangled their hands and slid her arms around his neck, holding him as tightly as possible. His shoulder muffled her sobs and he reached up to wipe away a stray tear of his own. "Shh, chérie, it's all right now," he murmured, and she pulled back from him, her outrage plain on her tear-streaked face.

"No, by God and all the saints, it is not all right!" she raged. "Damn their black souls to hell, every last one of them! How dare they—"

Erik laid a finger over her mouth to hush her. "Maman would have liked you, very much," he said softly, and Veronique's anger dissolved into more tears. After a moment, he realized that he very much liked the feel of her in his arms, despite the fact that she was soaking his shirtfront.

When her tears dwindled to an occasional hiccup, he eased her back a few inches. "All right now?" he asked, wiping her cheeks with his thumbs.

She nodded and looked up at him. "Will you ask M. Bertrand about . . . this man he thinks is your grand-père?"

"I don't know."

* * *

Henri Herz, Austrian pianist and composer (1803-1888) studied at the Conservatoire at about the same time that I have decided that Alphonse and Gérard did. Henri also taught at the Conservatoire from 1842-1874. He traveled on tour through Europe, Russia and America, and wrote a book about that portion of his journeys, My Travels in America. He also built a piano factory and a concert hall in Paris.


	19. Chapter 19

A Song in the Night

**A/N: A warning for 'violence' and language... Erik reveals a little more of his history to Veronique... and has a bit of a surprise from Giselle... :-)**

Chapter Nineteen

"I don't know."

The softly spoken words hung in the air and Veronique felt the tension in his body. "I promise to speak of this to no one," she repeated, and his muscles relaxed a fraction.

At that moment, Samson sauntered to the door and loudly demanded to be let out. Both Erik and Veronique smiled, and he released her to comply with the fat cat's wishes. When Erik opened the door, he heard scuffling noises in the alley then what sounded like something falling over, followed by soft cursing. Looking at Veronique, he said, "Lock the door behind me and don't open it for anyone but me." With that, he disappeared into the darkness.

He paused a moment to let his eyes become accustomed to the faint moonlight. A second later Erik sensed movement to his left and ducked, avoiding a brick that sailed past him and clattered to the ground. His assailant grabbed him from behind, pinning Erik's arms to his sides.

The former Phantom smiled; the man's arms were barely long enough to reach around his chest. He knew now without a doubt who held him. Slowly, Erik began to move his arms out from his body, forcing Duchense to lose his grip. When he finally broke free, Erik grabbed Duchense by the arm and flipped him over his shoulder.

The smaller man landed on his back with a thud and moaned loudly. Immediately Erik jerked him up by the front of his shirt and punched him in the nose. Blood splattered and Duchense howled in pain. A vicious blow to his midsection followed. "Listen to me, you miserable little ver. If I catch you here at this house again, I will kill you." Erik gave the little man a shake with each of the last four words. "If I find you anywhere near me or anyone who lives in this house, I will kill you." With his free hand, he grabbed Duchense by the scrotum and squeezed with a vengeance. "Is that plain enough for you to understand?"

Gasping for breath, Duchense squeaked out, "Yes, I understand," and rolled into a ball when Erik dropped him in the alley.

The sounds of violent retching followed Erik as he walked back to Giselle's house. He stood in the shadows and waited until the would-be thief and blackmailer gained his feet and stumbled away. Erik remained for several more minutes, studying the shadows around him, listening for anything that would indicate the sot had returned.

The normal sounds of the night surrounded him; nothing out of the ordinary. Erik took a deep cleansing breath and held it, then let it out and knocked quietly on the back door. Immediately Veronique's worried face peered out at him; fumbling a bit, she unlocked and opened the door.

"Are you all right?" she whispered, pulling him inside, running her hands over his chest and arms. "No wounds, merci a le bon Dieu," she murmured. Wrapping her arms around herself, she looked up at him. "What is going on, Erik? Does this have something to do with that note I received?"

He touched her on the shoulder and steered her back to the kitchen table. "Yes," he said, "I am afraid it does a little." Pausing, he glanced up to see Giselle standing in the doorway. "Actually, it concerns all of us."

"It's that ignorant Duchense, isn't it?" said Giselle, her mouth compressed in a flat line. "I knew I never should have let that cochon in my house," she muttered. "The notes—he was trying to blackmail you both, wasn't he?" She came into the kitchen and Erik pulled out a chair for her.

"Yes," he said, "somehow he discovered that Veronique and I spent the night together at Vuillaume's. And a short time before that, I'm sure he had been snooping around here, eavesdropping on a conversation between Veronique and me." Erik sat in the chair he'd occupied earlier and added, "Foolishly, I thought I could frighten him into staying away." Shrugging, he gave the women a tiny smile. "He is more determined than I realized."

Giselle grunted. "No, not determined, but stupid. He is too stupid to know when he is beaten." She fell silent for a moment then added, "We will never have a moment's peace until Duchense is no longer a threat to us."

"Tonight, I told him if he comes here again, or if he bothers anyone who lives here again, I would kill him." At Veronique's soft gasp, Erik told her, "It would not be the first time."

* * *

Guy Duchense sat in the lone chair at the rickety table, taking an occasional gulp from the bottle of cheap wine sitting in front of him. His nose had swollen and when he touched it accidentally, a shaft of pain went through him, which in turn caused other body parts to throb viciously.

He cursed until he ran out of words—his parents, his so-called friends, and most especially— Erik. Grabbing the bottle, he took another drink, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "God damn circus freak! First, he broke my wrist throwing me down the stairs, and it took forever to heal. Then he put that damn powder on what was supposed to be my money, and both hands swelled up."

The reminder of that incident made the palm of one hand prickle; Duchense scratched it absently until he realized what he was doing. "Merde alors!" He picked up the bottle for another swig and cursed anew when he saw it was empty. "Then he showed up when the girl was supposed to, and I sneezed for three days."

He stood and walked slowly to the washstand, grabbing his last bottle of wine. With great care, he sat back down on the ladder back chair, his balls still tender from the night before. "And that's another thing," he muttered, "the latest on the long list of what he's gonna pay for."

Maybe you ought to leave him alone, a voice in his head said timidly. He sounded like he meant it when he said he'd kill you if he sees you again.

For a few seconds Duchense pondered the idea then he shook his head. "No, dammit! He's gonna pay for what he did to me. What did I ever do to him?" After a few more minutes of thought, he said, "So I'll lay low for a while and make him think he's scared me off." Snapping his fingers, he smiled wickedly. "Then I'll pounce and get rid of him and get me that taste of the girl—maybe even keep her around for a few days . . . or weeks."

* * *

After Erik's admission that he had killed before, Veronique felt uncomfortable in his presence. She tried to hide it as best she could, but it made her jittery. At the end of her lesson a few nights later, he accidentally brushed her arm as she was putting her bow away. Startled, she pulled back, and Erik's mouth turned down in a grimace.

"I wish you wouldn't do that," he muttered under his breath. "Has my telling you more about my past changed me that much? Have I suddenly become a monster?" Turning away, he strode to the window and stared out, his body rigid with tension.

Veronique felt her face flush in shame and she went to stand behind him and a little to one side. "Forgive me, please?" Tentatively she laid her hand on his back, feeling the warmth and strength of him, trying to reconcile the man she had come to know with this new knowledge. "No, you have not changed," she said, "and I do not believe that you could ever be a monster." She paused. "I was just . . . surprised, I suppose. I don't think many men would admit that they have killed someone."

He said nothing, merely continued to stare out the window. After a moment, Veronique dropped her hand. "I have been behaving abominably toward you, and I do apologize," she said. "If you cannot forgive me, I understand." Her voice quavering, she added, "I am sorry I ruined our friendship," and turned to leave.

Before she had gone three steps, Erik whirled around and put his hand on her shoulder, stopping her. "Veronique, don't go!" Moving until he stood in front of her, he felt his heart plummet to his toes when he saw the tears in her eyes. "Please, let me explain?" She nodded and he steered her to the sofa and they sat. He picked up one of her hands and held it, intertwining their fingers.

Taking a deep breath, he held it for several seconds then let it out slowly. "I've told you a little about my time with the Gypsies, that I escaped when I was twelve." At her sound of agreement, he reached around and pulled the tail of his shirt free of his trousers. "I was . . . stubborn . . . about being on display, and . . ." His voice trailing away, he raised the shirt, turning far enough that Veronique could see ridges of scars on his back. "It took me a while to learn my lesson," Erik said.

She clapped her hands over her mouth, but not before a soft moan escaped. "Oh, mon grand!" she whispered, leaning forward to slide her arms around him and hold him tight. He felt so good, so . . . right in her arms. Why have I not noticed the scars before?

Because you had something else on your mind, retorted the voice in her head.

Her face flushing anew, she sat back and folded her hands together in her lap. "Please, go on," she murmured.

"Yes. Well." Erik cleared his throat. "There was one man assigned to guard me. He was quite cruel, and very skilled with the whip—he used it often, and not just on me. I was tall when I was twelve, almost the height that I am now. He came into my cage drunk one night and I—I decided that I was not going to take it any longer. I grabbed the whip away from him and . . . strangled him with it."

For a long moment, there was no sound in the parlor except the snapping of the fire. Then Veronique reached out and grasped both Erik's hands. "I am very sorry that you had to kill him, but . . . I'm also very glad that you were able to escape from that horrible life." She stood and walked to the fireplace, staring down at the flames. "I have often wondered what I would do if . . . if some man tried to . . . force himself on me."

Erik made a low growling sound and she smiled at him over her shoulder. "I think I would be able to do whatever I had to do to get away from such a man, even . . . kill him."

Getting to his feet, Erik joined her in front of the fire, cautiously putting his hands atop her shoulders. With a sigh, she leaned back against his chest and he wound his arms around her waist. "Pray to God that you will never have to find out what you are capable of," he told her.

* * *

Later that night, too restless to go to bed, Erik prowled through the house, checking the locks. Everything was secure, and everyone was sleeping peacefully except him. When he finally lay down, he only stayed in bed a few minutes before tossing aside the blanket with a sigh.

Marguerite raised her head and gave him an irritated look, as if to say, What is the matter with you? He smiled and rubbed the top of her head with the tip of one finger and she settled back to sleep.

He crossed to the window and stared out at the stars, remembering vaguely his promise to gather some for his maman. Oh, Maman! Should I talk to M. Bertrand about Grand-père? Or should I leave the past alone? The stars and the night sky held no answer and he turned away. The restlessness still clawed at him and he reached for his cloak, determined to escape into the night and walk it off, as he had done countless times before.

A faint light shone in the kitchen when he got to the bottom of the stairs and he went to investigate. Giselle sat at the table, a cup of tea at her elbow and Delilah in her lap. Softly, so he would not startle her, Erik said, "You couldn't sleep either, eh?"

She shook her head. "Come and sit down, mon ami. I want to talk to you." When he pulled out the chair next to her, she said, "I hope you know that I think of you and Veronique as my adopted children." Erik smiled and she continued, "So what the devil is going on between you two? She is as jumpy as a scared rabbit. And you—Samson with a sore paw has a better disposition than you have had the last few days."

Briefly, Erik explained, glossing over the details of his years with the Gypsies, and ending with what had happened that evening. Giselle nodded. "I could tell that your statement was a shock to her. I saw your scars when you were sick, and I must admit I wondered about them." She fell silent for a few moments, studying him intently. "I noticed a few weeks ago that some of my herbs were missing. What concoction did you stir up to 'frighten' Duchense?"

"An itching powder and a sneezing powder," Erik said, grinning as she realized the connotations. They laughed together for a moment then he sobered. "I am afraid that you were quite right when you said we will never have a moment's peace until he is no longer a threat to us." He pushed away from the table and paced to the stove. "Yes, I have killed in the past, and not simply to remain alive. I'm not proud of that. I would like to think that I am a better person now." Turning, he faced her and said, "And I do not want to go back to that life, ever, for any reason."

Giselle shrugged and gave him a knowing smile. "There is no reason why you should, eh? After all, the Opera Ghost is dead, n'est-ce pas? Did he not perish in the fire?"

* * *

ver—worm

sot—fool, simpleton

ignorant—ignoramus

mon grand—my dear


	20. Chapter 20

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: FYI, this story has been completed for several months, so the events that occur in this chapter are in NO way a response to the comments made by one reviewer for Ch. 19. I'm sorry if it has not been living up to expectations, but it will remain as it has been written.**

**Warning for violence/language: Duchense finally gets his due in this chapter.**

Chapter Twenty

For one of the few times in his life, Erik stuttered. "Op—Opera Ghost? What—"

Giselle gave him a look common to mothers the world over. "Oh, come now, Erik. I've known for some time, actually." He looked at her with something akin to panic and she relented. "Think about it, mon chéri. You arrived here just after the fire at the Populaire, your knowledge and your skills with music are extraordinary, to say the least."

His legs trembling, Erik sat down heavily in the chair he'd vacated moments earlier. "You—you must believe me, Giselle. I am not that man anymore. I—"

"I know that," she retorted. "If I believed for one tiny instant that you were, you would not be living here with me and my daughter and grandson, not to mention that sweet girl you're falling in love with."

Seeing the stunned look on his face, Giselle stood and draped her arms over his shoulders, pressing her cheek to his scarred one. "I have told no one, if that's what worries you, mon fils. But I'm afraid that you made need some of those 'skills' again, to deal efficiently with Duchense."

* * *

The next few days passed in a blur, Erik waiting for someone else at the house to mention the Opera Ghost to him. But no one did, and gradually he relaxed. The weather began to improve and he helped Giselle plant several window boxes for the house.

As they were working, she laughed softly. "Did you really drop the scenery on La Carlotta?" she asked, taking care not to speak too loudly.

Erik grunted in reply. "Did you ever hear her sing? Or what she thought was singing? Sacré bleu! Her voice would offend Saint Blaise himself." Tamping down forcefully on the soil around the plants, he said, "Yes, I did it, and I would do so again in a second."

Giselle merely chuckled and shook her head at him. "Veronique told me once that she admired the Ghost for trying to shut up La Carlotta."

* * *

Two weeks later

"Veronique, come here and help me." Erik spoke over his shoulder, cursing under his breath when the bass-bar slipped out of position for the tenth time in two minutes.

"Just a minute," she replied absently, concentrating on reaching as far as she could with her broom. The man who usually worked at this table had left work after only an hour, complaining of pains in his stomach.

"I don't have a minute to wait, Veronique!" Sounding highly irritated, Erik looked up and saw her still sweeping. "Get over here now, before the glue begins to set."

Stunned, she raised her head and stared at him. In all the time she had known him, she had never heard that tone in his voice before, not even the night Giselle had been attacked. Authoritative and quite angry, it sent chills racing up her spine.

Something else in his tone sparked her own temper and she marched over to him, jabbing her finger in his chest. "Don't you take that tone of voice with me, Erik Devereaux. I am not your personal slave, or helper, or any such thing. If you want me to help you, then ask me; don't demand it."

Through gritted teeth, Erik asked, "Will you please hold this for me? The clamp keeps slipping off." He grabbed her hand and curled her fingers around the bass-bar before she could answer.

She stood in an awkward position, holding the two pieces of wood together, until Erik grunted, "There—finally! You can move your hands now." Stepping back out of his way, she folded her arms across her chest and glared at his back until he turned around. "Next time, when I call you, you come to me immediately," he told her, his voice curt.

Opening her mouth, she had to close it again and wait until she was able to speak without shouting or cursing. "I am not a dog, trained to come when you call my name," she ground out. "Do not make that mistake again." With that, she whirled around and marched out, slamming the front door in her wake.

Women! thought Erik disgustedly. Infuriating, aggravating, irrational creatures. Then he heard a scream, making the hair on the back of his neck stand up. "Oh, God! Veronique!" He ran to the door and tore it open, following the sounds of a scuffle. Around the corner of the building, down the alley, in the fading daylight he saw her struggling with a man.

"Let her go!" Erik sent his voice echoing down the narrow passageway, startling the man who held Veronique tightly. As he moved closer, his heart moved up into his throat. It was Guy Duchense.

Holding her arms pinned to her body, Duchense used Veronique as a shield. He swung around to face Erik and smiled, an evil, malicious smile. "Come and make me," he sneered, snagging the neckline of her dress with one hand. He jerked down, tearing the bodice of her dress, then moved his hand inside the gaping fabric, kneading and squeezing her breasts. Veronique twisted and cursed him, but he refused to turn her loose.

Erik strode toward them, his mind racing with possible solutions. No room for the lasso, he thought. Veronique is too close to him. So it will have to be fists or knives. He stopped several feet away, close enough to see the fear mixed with outrage in her green eyes. "Are you all right, ma petite?" he asked, his calm voice belying the anger he felt.

"I will be, just as soon as this filthy bâtard takes his hands off me," she replied hotly, trying to pry the man's hands away from her body. She spewed a couple of inventive curses at her captor, making Erik chuckle in spite of the grave circumstances.

"Are you certain you are man enough for this one?" he asked Duchense as he moved closer to them.

"More man than the likes of you," the other man growled. Almost immediately, he howled in pain as Veronique brought her heel down hard on the instep of his foot. She wrenched herself free from his grasp, and stumbled a short distance away.

"His little finger is more of a man than you," she said venomously. She jerked when Erik put his hands on her shoulders and shoved her roughly behind him.

"Get away from here, Veronique," Erik said in a commanding tone of voice, never taking his eyes off Duchense. "Walk away and do not look back." No sooner had she taken ten steps than the man leaped toward him, slashing the air with a big knife. Pivoting to his right, Erik pulled his own knife from his boot and the two squared off. Duchense lunged clumsily and Erik fell back and to his right. "She isn't worth all this trouble," he said to the other man, then moved closer and sliced open his opponent's forearm.

Grunting in pain, Duchense scoffed, "A prime piece like her, not worth the trouble? Guess that's what someone like you would think, you freak." He lunged again, slashing with the blade, and Erik dodged away.

He feinted to his left and moved toward his right, getting close enough this time to open a gash on Duchense's side. They danced around each other for a few moments, darting forward and ducking out of the way. Erik cut the other man on the leg, his longer reach keeping him out of the way of Duchense's blade.

Thinking to goad him into action, Duchense said, "I bet you don't even know what to do with her, do you?" He laughed derisively. "Oh, no, she's worth any amount of trouble. Why, the feel of those tits in my hand a minute ago, hard as marbles—"

Whatever else he might have said was cut off when Erik thrust his knife into the man's belly and jerked it upward. "Mademoiselle duPres is a lady, and she does not appreciate you speaking of her in those terms. Neither— do— I," he snarled. He pulled the knife out amidst a gush of blood; for an instant Duchense seemed to hang in mid-air then he collapsed face-down in the alley.

Breathing hard, spattered with blood himself, Erik looked around for something to wipe the knife blade on. He glanced up and saw the shocked look on Veronique's face, even from the end of the alley. Suddenly drained of energy, his legs trembling violently, he backed away from the body and turned sideways, not facing her directly. "I am . . . sorry you had to witness that, Veronique." He swallowed hard against the bile rising in his throat. "Now you know . . . what I am capable of." He put his hand out, bracing himself against the wall of the building.

Slowly he began to walk toward her, continuing to support himself with the wall. Hearing rapid footsteps, he looked up to see Veronique running toward him. His breath caught in his throat when she slid her arm around his waist and helped him move around the corner. He leaned back against the brick wall gratefully, breathing deeply.

"Do not dare apologize to me, Erik Devereaux," she said, her voice unsteady, holding her torn dress together. "If I had not run away from you in anger, this would not have happened." Her eyes filled with tears and ran down her cheeks. He straightened, reaching out to catch a tear on his fingertip. With a soft cry, she leaned into him, slid her arms around him, heedless of the blood on him.

"Hold me, please," she whispered, her breath catching on a sob. "Erase the memory of that . . . cochon's hands on me." He stood utterly still and she leaned back, looking up into his eyes. "Please, Erik, hold me."

His arms went around her reluctantly, and she sighed and snuggled closer. Sainte Mère, help me! He started to remove his arms but she held tight to him, refusing to let go. Her head went automatically to that spot on his shoulder. "Veronique," he murmured, "you really do not know anything about me." Swallowing, he continued, "At one point in my life, I was no better than him."

That brought her head up. "No," she said adamantly, "you were never like him! Not on the worst possible day."

Easing her out of his embrace, Erik smiled sadly. "Oh, but I was." She made no response, just continued to stare at him. "Come, ma chérie, we need to get away from this place." He slid one arm around her waist and started to lead her back down the street to Vuillaume's. They were only a few yards from the front window of the violin shop when she pulled him to a stop.

"Wait," she whispered, turning to face him. She reached up and touched his scarred cheek with the tips of her fingers. "Thank you, Erik, for coming after me." Going up on her toes, she pressed a kiss to his mouth, just as he opened it to speak.

Her tongue grazed his bottom lip before sliding inside his mouth. Stunned, he stood frozen for a second then timidly he touched his tongue to hers. With a moan, she wrapped her arms around his neck, deepening the kiss. He held her tightly, nearly groaning at the sensation of her breasts against his chest. One hand slid down her back and over her bottom, making her nearly sob and press hard against him.

Suddenly Erik broke the kiss and backed away from her, gasping for air. Veronique's voice came as if from a great distance.

"Did I—did I do something wrong?"

The uncertainty in her tone made him cringe and he looked at her. His beautiful, fiery Veronique appeared ashamed, and he cursed under his breath. Very slowly, he reached out and touched her cheek with his thumb. "Oh, no, ma belle, you did nothing wrong. I—I have not been kissed . . . like that . . . in a very long time, and I . . ."

"Well, that's a relief," she murmured. When he frowned at her, she bit her lip and looked away. "I, um, I've only ever been kissed on the cheek, or the forehead, until . . ."

A heavy silence fell, and Erik considered her words. Before he could stop himself, he said, "Pardon, ma chérie. Your first kiss should have come from . . . someone else, not me."

"Why?" she demanded, all her insecurity vanishing in an instant. "I know you, Erik, and I like you, and, well . . . Sometimes when I look at you, I . . ."

He grunted. "I am surprised that you don't run screaming in the opposite direction. That hurt!" he added when she punched him on the arm. "What's the matter with you? I follow you out here and save you from that . . . ruffian, and you hit me?"

Groaning in frustration, Veronique grabbed his shoulders and pulled him to her. "Shut up, Erik, and kiss me again," she whispered, staring deep into his eyes. Not waiting for him to act, she slid her hand behind his head and closed the distance between them. Softly, her lips plucked at his until his arms went around her and held her tight.

The feel of his rock-solid chest against her breasts made her tremble and she clung to him, opening her mouth when he silently demanded it, tasting the coffee he had drunk earlier, inhaling the scent she had come to know as his alone.

There was no timidity about him now. He nearly devoured her, his tongue dueling with hers, feinting and diving. He heard her moan and pulled back, just far enough for both of them to breathe. "Oh, Veronique, mon amour, I was so frightened when I heard you scream," he murmured, dotting her face with tiny kisses.

Veronique felt her knees begin to buckle, whether from Duchense's aborted attack or Erik's kisses, she wasn't sure. Je t'aime, Erik, she thought, and looped her arms around his neck again. She stared deeply into his eyes, and saw them widen after a second. Slowly he lowered his head, his eyes watching her until just before he touched his lips gently to hers.

Not satisfied with his soft, sweet kisses, Veronique boldly traced the edge of his lips with her tongue and thrust it inside when he opened his mouth to her. One hand drifted down his back and squeezed his bottom, pulling him as close to her as possible.

He made a strange sound, a combination of surprise and pleasure, and in return caressed her lush backside, which made her move closer, against the hard evidence of his desire for her. They broke apart, struggling for breath. Painstakingly slowly, Erik brought his hand up and cupped her breast through her chemise.

She moaned and he jerked his hand away as if it had been burned. Grabbing his hand, she returned it to her breast, her eyes hazy and heavy-lidded. "It's all right," she said. "Please, touch me!"

Reverently, he did as she asked, running his thumb up and down the sides then dragging it across her nipple, already standing at attention. Her head fell back and she moaned again, but this time he knew it was in pleasure; he could see it on her face.

The startled yowl of a cat brought them crashing back to reality. "Merde! We are standing in the street," muttered Erik. He looked at Veronique. Her eyes still heavy with desire, it took all his willpower to move away. "This is not the place for this, ma belle," he said, regret heavy in his voice. "Let's collect our things and go home." He slid an arm around her waist and they walked the short distance to Vuillaume's.

"What about . . . him?" Veronique asked after a moment. "Not that I care, honestly," she added.

"There were no witnesses but you, chérie. And I truthfully don't think that anyone will miss him."

* * *

Saint Blaise was a physician and bishop of Sebaste (modern-day Sivas), Armenia. He is traditionally believed to intercede in cases of throat illnesses, and 'blessing of the throats' is held in Catholic churches on February 3, his feast day. His 'connection' with throats and throat-related illness makes him somewhat of a favorite saint of singers. Plácido Domingo has said in interviews that he prays to "San Blas" (the Spanish version of the name) before every performance.

This information is excerpted from The Violin Maker, by John Marchese, (©HarperCollins, 2007). He followed violin maker Sam Zygmuntowicz around as he crafted a violin for Eugene Drucker, who plays with the Emerson String Quartet. "The bass-bar looks like the fin of a 1950s vintage car and is basically a support beam glued to the inside of the instrument, running down the front, a little to the left of the center line. It provides support against the pressure of the string tension and it is also an important factor in creating the sound of the fiddle. It's located under the G string, the one with the lowest pitch."


	21. Chapter 21

**A Song in the Night**

Chapter Twenty-one

Thankfully, the other workers had gone home by the time Erik and Veronique returned to Vuillaume's. He led her to his worktable and helped her sit on the stool in front of it. "Give me a moment, chérie," he said, and she nodded. Going to the small water closet, he wet a cloth and tried to clean the blood off his shirt. Finally he gave up and threw the shirt in the rubbish, slipping his jacket on and buttoning it.

Erik quickly fetched their cloaks and she fastened hers all the way up to her throat, her fingers fumbling a bit. As they walked to the omnibus stop, she slid her arm around his waist and leaned against him. "Don't worry, mon coeur, they can't see underneath your cloak. Try to act as though nothing is wrong," he murmured as they stood waiting.

She looked up at him with a wan smile. "God forgive me, but I'm glad he's dead," she whispered. Shivering, she moved closer to him, sighing as his warmth enveloped her, seemingly from the inside out.

On the ride to Giselle's, they said little. Erik chafed her hands between his, trying to warm them. "Just a little farther now." Hold on until we get home, ma belle.

Quickly they walked from the omnibus to the house and up the stairs, Erik practically carrying Veronique the last few steps. "Giselle! Come quickly," he called as soon as they got inside the front door.

"What has happened?" Drying her hands on a dish towel, the older woman took one look at Veronique's pale face and put her arm around the girl's waist from the other side. "Mon Dieu, she is as white as a sheet! Erik, talk to me," she demanded.

In an unemotional voice, he told her about Duchense's attempted attack on Veronique, adding that the cafard was no longer a threat to anyone. By this time they had made their way up the stairs to Veronique's room and carefully helped her sit on the edge of the bed.

Giselle grabbed the empty bowl from the washstand, just in case. Bending down, she touched the younger woman's chin and tipped her head up. "Ma pauvre chérie, are you all right?" she asked quietly.

"I am not going to be sick, if that's what you're asking," replied Veronique with a touch of her usual spirit. She stretched out a hand to Erik and he grasped it, pressing it to his chest. Her eyes spoke volumes to him and he raised her hand and kissed the palm.

Seeing the look pass between them, Giselle fought the urge to smile despite the horrible circumstances. She touched Veronique on the shoulder. "I will go and draw you a hot bath, chérie. Trust me; that will make you feel much better." She bustled out of the room and down the hall.

Erik sat next to Veronique; immediately she wound her arms around him. He felt her trembling, but didn't know what to say to her. "You—you were very brave, chaton." She inhaled sharply and he froze, thinking he had said the wrong thing.

"I would have gladly clawed his eyes out," she muttered. "I—I am sorry I . . . forced you to . . ."

"No," he replied, shaking his head as he pulled back to look at her. "This was no fault of yours, chérie."

Giselle returned and shooed Erik out of the room. After helping Veronique discard her clothing and slip into a robe, she escorted her down the hall and waited outside while the young woman soaked in the tub. Then she helped her dress and walked down to the dining room with her.

Although the meal was one of Veronique's favorites, she found she could eat only a few bites before the food seemed to lodge in her throat, and for the remainder of the meal she merely pushed the food from one side of her plate to the other. Thankfully, André kept a lively conversation going with M. Chermont, and she didn't think anyone noticed that she ate very little.

She helped Giselle with the dishes as always, but Erik suggested they forego their lesson for that night. For a while they sat on the sofa in the parlor, Veronique held securely in Erik's arms, watching the fire but not speaking. When the clock struck nine, Veronique stirred. "I think I'll go on to bed now." She leaned forward and kissed Erik's scarred cheek. "I will never be able to thank you—" she began, stopping when he put a finger over her mouth.

"Je t'aime, Veronique. I would do anything for you." After she had gone upstairs, Erik lay back and stared at the ceiling. When he closed his eyes, the sight of Duchense holding Veronique flashed through his mind, and he felt his stomach churn. I had no choice! That scum was deliberately trying to provoke me, and would have raped her—or worse. I would do the same thing again, to save her or anyone here.

* * *

Veronique woke with a jerk, her heart pounding, her mouth as dry as dust. Sainte Mère! It was only a dream. Samson stomped up the mattress and sat at her shoulder. After a moment he flopped down and burrowed next to her; she reached out to scratch behind his ears, smiling faintly when he began to purr.

But even his satisfied rumblings could not soothe Veronique back to sleep and after a few minutes she eased out of bed. Wrapping her favorite quilt around her shoulders, she opened the door and peered out into the hallway. No one appeared to be awake, and she slipped up the stairs to the third floor.

The door to Erik's room was ajar; slowly she pushed it open. He lay on the bed on his back, his hands stacked beneath his head. Veronique nearly swallowed her tongue at the sight of his bare chest in the faint moonlight. So wide that it almost filled the bed from side to side, it was dusted with dark hair that trailed down a hard, flat belly. She must have made some sound, because Erik raised his head and looked at her.

"Are you all right, ma chérie?" He turned and propped himself up on one elbow, held out his hand to her. With a shy smile he added, "I was . . . thinking of you."

That made her eyes fill with tears and she blinked them away. "I—I woke up—after a bad dream," she whispered, "and couldn't go back to sleep." Slowly she moved to the bed and took his hand, allowing him to pull her down to perch on the edge. A bit self-consciously she turned and lay next to him, her back against his chest.

His arm came around her waist and held her, but not too tightly. She put her hand over the top of his, intertwining their fingers. "You may have bad dreams for a while, chaton." His voice rumbled in her ear. "It's a natural thing, after what you went through."

"Yes, I know," she said. "Giselle said the same thing to me earlier tonight." She pulled his arm more snugly around her, sighing as the heat from his body seeped through her quilt, warming and relaxing her. "Is it wrong of me, to be glad he's dead?"

Erik rubbed the back of her hand with his thumb as he considered her question. "No," he said finally. "I don't think so. The man was a pig, in the truest sense of the word. He tried to hurt Giselle, he tried to hurt you, he would have ra—" He clenched his jaw until he managed to control his anger. "No, it is not wrong, and we will not speak of him again, agreed?"

She made a soft sound of agreement. Snuggling a little closer, she sighed. He always smells so good, she thought, smothering a yawn. "Sing to me, Erik. Perhaps then I can fall asleep and not have such horrid dreams."

"And what shall I sing for you, mon coeur?" Shall I sing of my love for you? How your song in the night has changed a bitter man into someone else?

Her voice drowsy, she said, "Oh, I don't know. Something peaceful . . ."

Erik began to hum one of his own compositions, a Kyrie he'd once intended to include in a Mass that was never completed. Within moments, he felt her relax into sleep, her breathing slow and even. Dropping a kiss on the top of her head, he inhaled the scent of lily of the valley that she favored. "Rêves douce, mon amour," he murmured.

* * *

A bright shaft of sunlight fell across his face the next morning, waking Erik just as he heard someone outside his room. He heard a gasp, and suddenly realized that Veronique still lay tucked against him, wrapped snugly in her quilt. He felt his face grow warm when he also realized that he wore only his trousers, and no shirt. Sheepishly he looked up at his landlady.

Giselle walked into the room, her hands propped on her hips. "And just what is the meaning of this, mes chéries?" she asked, the twinkle in her eyes belying the stern tone of her voice.

Next to him, Erik felt Veronique stir and she smiled sleepily at him as he moved to sit up. He opened and closed his mouth a couple of times, trying to come up with a plausible excuse for the two of them being in his bed. He failed miserably. "Giselle, believe me, this isn't what it seems . . ." he began, his voice trailing away when he saw the pleased look on her face.

At that moment, Veronique sat up and kissed him soundly on the mouth. When she pulled back, she smiled at the flustered look on his face. Before she turned to face Giselle, she mouthed, I love you.

Taken aback, he was speechless for several moments. Finally he was able to choke out, "Nothing happened, Giselle. I swear to you, on my mother's grave."

Giselle huffed out a breath. "I should think not. Why, in a bed that narrow, and a man your size, you'd never . . ."

Stunned silence filled the room and then Veronique giggled. Giselle tried to maintain her composure, but failed upon seeing the astounded look that crossed Erik's face when he heard Veronique's laughter. Within seconds, both women were whooping, tears running down their cheeks. He got out of bed and stood with his arms across his chest.

"This is not funny," he said stiffly.

Giselle bit the inside of her cheek. "Oh, mon cher fils, we aren't laughing at you," she said. Much, she added silently. "It's just that . . . sometimes laughter helps in . . . awkward situations."

"Grand-mère!" They heard André calling as he thundered up the stairs. Veronique's eyes widened in panic.

Quickly Erik snatched up his shirt and put it on. "The water-closet," he said. "Hurry—he'll never even glance in that direction in his haste." Veronique scrambled out of bed and dashed down the hall, closing the door just as André's head appeared at the top of the stairs.

Giselle met him, catching him by the shoulders before he could dart past her. "What has you shouting at this hour of the morning, young man?" Automatically she turned him around and started down the stairs with him.

"Samson . . . ham for breakfast . . ." was all that floated up to Erik; he cringed, feeling a tiny bit sorry for the cat, knowing what a scolding the big orange tom was going to get.

When he could no longer hear their voices, Erik tapped on the door. "They're gone, chaton. You can come out now."

Opening the door slowly, she edged out into the hall, her face bright pink with embarrassment. She looked so desirable, her bronze hair tumbling to her shoulders, her green eyes shining with love for him, that Erik could not stop himself. He reached out and pulled her into his arms. She came quite willingly, her head going to the same spot it always found on his shoulder.

"Erik?" Her voice hesitant, she spoke barely loud enough for him to hear. "Last night you called me 'mon coeur.' " She pulled back just far enough to see his face. "Am I? Am I your heart?"

Something flared in his eyes for just an instant, but it was enough to make her knees go weak. "Yes," he murmured. Veronique closed her eyes as he kissed her forehead, trailed kisses across both cheeks and finally reached her lips. He devoured her mouth, and she clung to him, both oblivious to anything but the other.

Finally, a loudly-cleared throat from the landing below them brought them back to earth. "Breakfast will be ready in ten minutes," Giselle called out.

* * *

After being rudely awakened from their drunken slumber by two policemen, Bertie Lambeau and Gus Duval stumbled down the alley near Vuillaume's violin-making shop. The odor of rotten food and dead vermin that greeted them halfway down the alley made them stop; it was vile, even for the streets of Paris.

"Uh-oh. Looks like somebody got stabbed last night." Bertie nudged the body with his foot. After a couple of attempts he managed to roll the body over. "Hey, Gus, you know this fellow?" He waved his hand in front of him, trying to dispel the smell.

The shorter man came and bent over the dead man, studying him intently. Several moments passed before he straightened up and shrugged. "No, do you?"

"Maybe." Holding his hand over his nose, Bertie bent closer and took a second look. "Seems like I've seen him before." His bleary eyes focused on the wound. "Whoever he was, he tangled with the wrong man, that's for sure."

"Say," Gus said, "ain't he the one from last night? The one braggin' how he was gonna hit it big real soon? What was his name? Duchelle? Nah." Idly he scratched his chest through his shirt. "Dumond?" After a moment, he snapped his fingers. "Duchense, that was it."

Frowning, Bertie tried to remember. "Yeah, you may be right, Gus." He reached down and fumbled in Duchense's trouser pocket. Over Gus' protests, he pulled out a small leather purse and tucked it away in his own pocket. "Aw, quit your jabberin', Gus. Duchense don't need it no more. And we need a little hair of the dog." With that, Bertie turned and ambled away, Gus trotting in his wake.

"But—but—" When Bertie paid no attention to him, Gus grabbed the other man's arm. "Shouldn't we tell somebody we found him?" he sputtered.

Sighing, Bertie stopped and faced his companion. "Who're we gonna tell? Chances are he was just like us—a pickpocket or some other kind of thief. Police ain't gonna do nothin'." They walked in silence for a few yards before Bertie added, "You know, I had a sorta bad feeling bein' around him last night, Gus. Most likely, he got what he had comin' to him. And we don't wanna have nothin' to do with him."

* * *

Rêves douce—sweet dreams

**A/N: Bertie and Gus' language is written to convey (hopefully) their lack of anything but the most basic education... nothing more...**


	22. Chapter 22

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: Erik gets a bit of a surprise in this chapter...**

Chapter Twenty-two

As March gave way to April, the weather improved, providing the city with warm, sunny days and cool, pleasant nights. Erik and Veronique fell into the habit of walking out after dinner. They held hands, laughed, stole kisses in the dark, and sometimes sneaked into a concert, climbing into the rafters to listen. At first she was amazed that Erik seemed to know his way around theatres so well, but after the first concert, a program of works by Beethoven, she did not question his knowledge of such things.

Tonight they 'attended' a performance of Meyerbeer's L'Africaine. During the tenor aria O Paradis, Veronique glanced over at Erik. He sat with his eyes closed, leaning slightly forward, barely breathing. She realized he was feeling the music and not just listening with his ears. When the song ended, and the audience erupted in wild applause, he opened his eyes and sighed, murmuring "Bravo."

On their way home he said very little, other than to ask if she had enjoyed the opera. She answered affirmatively, swinging their joined hands between them. They walked a few more blocks then he tugged her to a stop. Clearing his throat, he said, "Chaton, there is something I must tell you. I—I was— the Opera Ghost."

Veronique stood with her mouth agape. "Oh!" she breathed. Of course! His knowledge of music, of theatres, of . . . But he is so gentle . . . Then she burst into laughter and flung herself into his arms. "Thank you!" she gasped when she could speak. "Thank you, thank you for dropping that scenery on La Carlotta! I don't believe that I know of a more deserving person."

Erik chuckled and lowered his head, feathering his lips over hers. "You are most welcome, chérie." Raising his eyes, he glanced around and saw no one nearby. Veronique's arms twined around his neck and he kissed her again, gently at first, until she demanded more. He pulled her hard against him, let one hand settle on her hip, and she moaned softly.

Pulling back, she stared deeply into his eyes and whispered, "Erik . . . I want to . . . be with you!" Almost immediately she ducked her head, afraid of what she would see in his eyes.

An incredible surge of longing swept through him and for an instant he nearly gave in to it. They had so little time that was private, and he wanted her so badly, he ached from it. Working together had become both pleasure and torture. "Oh, ma belle, I—"

Loud laughter from behind them made them jerk apart, and Veronique cursed under her breath. Sudden tears stung her eyes and she looked away from him, sniffling. "Oh, Erik, will we ever have a time just for ourselves?"

"Yes, mon coeur, we will. I promise." He curled a finger under her chin and turned her face back to his. Staring deeply into her eyes, he repeated, "I promise." He slid an arm around her waist and she leaned against him, savoring the feel of his body pressed close to hers. Slowly they walked the rest of the way home in silence.

* * *

One week later

It promised to be a beautiful Saturday. Erik had overslept and missed breakfast, but he knew he could sneak a croissant out of the kitchen when Giselle's back was turned. Perhaps I can persuade her to make a picnic lunch for Veronique and me, and we can go to the park, he mused as he bathed and dressed. A smile started at one corner of his mouth and spread quickly. Even though it had been weeks since she had first said she loved him, the wonder of it still amazed him. That a beautiful, talented girl like her could love someone like him . . . He shook his head.

Erik made his way downstairs, buttoning the cuffs of his shirt as he went. Someone knocked on the front door and he veered in that direction to answer it. When he pulled open the door, a middle-aged woman with gray-streaked red hair stood on the stoop, her back to the door. "Yes, Madame? May I help you?"

At the sound of his voice she spun around, her mouth dropping open in shock for an instant. She recovered quickly, and murmured an apology. "Pardon, Monsieur. For a moment you reminded me of someone I once knew." Squaring her shoulders, she cleared her throat. "May I speak with M. Erik Devereaux, s'il vous plaît?"

His eyes narrowed. "I am Erik Devereaux, Madame. What may I do for you?"

A tiny smiled played around the corners of her mouth as she studied him. Only when Erik moved to close the door did she reply. "I was your maman's maid, before she ran away from home and married your papa."

Stunned, Erik stared at her, thinking it must be a hoax. If it were, it was better to deal with the implications inside, away from prying eyes. He moved aside to allow her to enter. "Please, Madame, come in. The parlor is this way." His mind racing, he went down the hallway and gestured for her to take a seat. "Pardon, Madame, but what is your name?"

Perched on the edge of the sofa, she folded her hands in her lap. "I am Claire Beauvais, Erik. As I said, I was your maman's maid, but we were also good friends, being nearly the same age. I used to—"

"Excusez-moi, Madame, but how did you find me?" He sank down on a nearby chair.

She gave him a tiny smile, the corners of her dark blue eyes crinkling. "Please, call me Claire. As to how I came to find you, it was a series of coincidences. I applied for the position of housekeeper a couple of weeks ago with M. Henri Herz. He teaches piano at the Conservatoire. In the course of speaking with him, I mentioned that I had once worked for M. and Mme. Duvalier, as their daughter's maid."

Erik pushed to his feet and began to pace, shaking his head. "No, no, this is too convenient," he muttered. Turning, he demanded, "Tell me something about my maman, something that only a person very well acquainted with her would know."

Claire pursed her lips. "She had a . . . blemish on her right shoulder and refused to wear a certain style of dress because it would be visible."

Nodding, Erik said, "Bien. Something else, if you please."

"She had a large scar on her left knee, from falling out of a tree when she was a small child." Claire's voice took on a slight edge. "Since you insist on putting me to the test, I will also tell you that she could not eat any kind of seafood. It made her violently ill." Sitting back, she folded her arms across her chest. "Are you satisfied, Monsieur?"

Feeling his face heat with embarrassment, Erik stopped pacing and resumed his seat. "I am sorry, Madame Beauvais. Certain events in my past have made me . . . overly cautious." He gave her an apologetic smile. "Maman would certainly take me to task about my appalling lack of manners. May I bring you some tea?"

She nodded and he excused himself. Oh, but he is the image of his grand-père, she thought. And he inherited more than a bit of his temper, it seems.

Erik returned with the tray and set it on the low table in front of the sofa. "Do you take lemon or cream, Mme. Claire?" he asked as he poured a cup for each of them.

"Sugar only, merci." The sat for a moment and she smiled at him. "I can feel the questions ready to burst from you," she said, "but you cannot decide which to ask first."

"We had such a short time together," he said quietly, "and it has been almost twenty-five years since she died." He looked away. "Did you know my papa?"

Claire took a sip of tea before she answered. "Yes, I did. His name was Erik Vangilder and he was from Holland originally. His parents moved to France when he was about ten years old, I believe. He was tall, like you, and had light brown hair and dark brown eyes. I used to help your maman sneak away to meet him." She sighed, and added, "I insisted on accompanying her. One only had to see them together to know that they were very much in love."

"Yes," said Erik dryly, "she told me herself that her father did not approve of him."

"He lived to regret that decision," Claire said. "Not only did he lose his only child, but his wife as well. I stayed with them for a few weeks after Catharine disappeared, hoping that she and your papa would return. Every opportunity she had, your grand-mère gave M. Duvalier the devil in private for driving your maman away." Claire laughed. "I accidentally overheard her once. Sacré bleu, but I was certain that a lady such as she did not know those words! Finally, she told him that she refused to go on living with a narrow-minded, bitter man, and she moved out. It caused a bit of scandal, as you might expect."

After a moment, Erik smiled. "Brava, Grand-mère," he said, lifting his cup in a salute. "I imagine that irritated the old man to no small degree. I only hope that she had the means to live comfortably."

Leaning forward, Claire set her cup on the table. "Oh, yes," she replied, smiling broadly. "She is quite comfortable indeed. Your grand-mère is still alive, Erik."

Stunned silence hung heavily in the room. Erik's eyes widened and his jaw dropped in surprise. After a moment he found his voice. "My grand-mère . . . is alive?"

Claire nodded. "Yes, when I met with M. Herz and mentioned working for your grandparents, he told me that Eléonore—your grand-mère—was living in the same apartment that she took when she left M. Duvalier. I went to see her and she hired me as her companion. Shortly afterward, she invited M. Herz to tea and during their conversation he mentioned his friend M. Bertrand, and, well . . . One thing led to another and . . . voilà."

His heart pounding, Erik rose and went to the window. Staring out, he saw nothing—not the children playing, not the cheerful flowers he and Giselle had planted in the window box weeks ago. He shook his head, trying to dispel the ringing in his ears. Faintly he heard Claire speaking and he turned. "Pardon, Mme. Claire. As you must know, this is a tremendous shock. My grand-mère—her health is good?"

"For the most part," replied Claire. "She slipped on some stairs at the Populaire a couple of winters ago and sprained her ankle. It pains her occasionally in cold weather and she walks with a slight limp, but otherwise she is in very good health. Her mind is every bit as keen as I remembered."

Erik inhaled sharply. Nom du Ciel! I helped an older woman who had fallen . . . Lost in thought, he didn't hear Claire ask him if he was all right. When she said his name loudly, he jerked. "I am sorry, Madame. What did you say?"

"If you are agreeable, your grand-mère would like to meet you." Claire gave him a slight smile. "She was overjoyed when M. Herz told her about M. Bertrand's . . . theories. But she insisted—most emphatically—that the decision was yours to make." Rising, she walked toward him. She reached into her reticule and pulled out a ladies' calling card. "Here is the address, should you decide to visit. Au revoir, Erik."

* * *

"Erik? Who was at the door?" Giselle came into the parlor and found him sitting on the sofa in dazed silence. She touched his shoulder and gave him a little shake. "Erik!"

"What?" He looked bewildered and she sat next to him, feeling a bit alarmed.

"Are you all right, mon chéri? You look as though you have seen a ghost . . . so to speak." Her attempt at humor fell flat and she frowned at him. "Erik, talk to me," she said, her tone gentle but firm.

"My mind is racing this way and that so quickly, I can't think," he muttered. Pushing to his feet, he paced the length of the room twice before speaking again. "The lady at the door was my mother's maid," he began, his voice low and rough with emotion. "Evidently my grand-mère is still alive and wants to meet me—if I wish." He stopped pacing and braced both hands against the fireplace mantel.

"And quite understandably, you are confused," murmured Giselle. She got to her feet and went to stand behind him. "Family can be a difficult thing, at times," she told him. "If you want to talk, I will do my best just to listen, and not tell you what you should do." Touching him on the shoulder, she leaned forward until she could see his face and gave him a tiny smile. "Or . . . you could talk to Veronique."

He turned suddenly, startling her, and swept her into a huge hug. "Merci, Giselle," he whispered, "for everything."

Her heart gave a funny little squeeze and she patted him on the back, blinking away tears. "De rien, mon chèr fils."

"May I beg a favor of you, Giselle?" Erik smiled when she moved out of his embrace and dabbed at her eyes with the corner of her apron.

"No, I will not fix you breakfast at this late hour," she said before he could continue.

A faint tinge of pink appeared on his cheeks and he ducked his head. "I was not going to ask you to do that; I was just going to steal a croissant when you weren't looking."

She huffed out a breath. "Between you, André and Samson, it's a wonder I have any food left in my kitchen at all." Giving him a slightly irritated look, she sighed. "All right, out with it."

"I was hoping I could convince you to make a picnic lunch for Veronique and me," said Erik, a pleading look in his eyes.

Giselle shook her head at him. "What time is it?"

Pulling out his watch, he consulted it and returned it to his pocket. "Half past ten." He followed her as she started down the hall toward the kitchen, already planning where he and Veronique would go, and what he would ask her. His daydreams disintegrated like a puff of smoke when Giselle spoke over her shoulder.

"That's what happens when you oversleep. This is the day of her trip to Auxerre, remember? To visit M. Bertrand and her other friends there."

"And she will not return until after dinner." His shoulders slumped and all the energy seemed to drain out of him.

He sounded so dejected that Giselle took pity on him. Turning, she patted his cheek. "Don't worry, chéri. I have plenty of work that needs to be done. You will scarcely miss her."

And work him she did. He emptied the kitchen stove and the parlor fireplace of their ashes. Next he helped her take down and shake the draperies in the parlor and wash the windows inside and out.

When they finally took a short break for lunch, muscles that Erik had forgotten he had were quivering. "Sainte Mère!" he said, seeing his hand tremble as he reached for his glass of water. "How do you do all this without collapsing?"

His landlady and friend took a sip of her tea and lifted her feet to rest them in the seat of the chair nearest her. "You become accustomed to it, I suppose," she replied. "My grand-mère had a favorite saying: Man may work from sun to sun, but woman's work is never done."

After letting their lunch settle a bit, they rolled up the downstairs rugs, took them out and beat them vigorously, then returned them to their rooms. Well satisfied with the day's work, Giselle declared them finished for the day. Gratefully, Erik crawled upstairs and soaked his aching body in a hot bath.

He was reaching for a towel to dry himself when he heard the faint sound of the front door closing. Veronique's voice drifted up to him and he felt his spirits lift miraculously. He hastened to dress and rushed downstairs to find Veronique waiting for him at the bottom of the staircase.

"Erik!" She came forward to embrace him and gifted him with a huge smile. Turning, she gestured to the young man who stood behind her. "I'd like you to meet François Deneuve. He's come to Paris to fill the position of concertmaster at the Opéra- Comique."

* * *

**A/N: When Giselle quotes her grandmother, it is a small homage to my great-grandmother, who my mother tells me used to say this quite often... :-)**

Au revoir—good-bye

De rien—you're welcome

The Opera-Comique is another opera house/company in Paris. The current building housing it (the salle Favart) is not far from the Garnier. But the operas performed here are not always comedies; indeed, this company gave the first performance of Bizet's Carmen, and Berlioz's The Damnation of Faust.


	23. Chapter 23

**A Song in the Night**

Chapter Twenty-three

Deneuve moved forward and extended his hand to Erik. "I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, Monsieur. Veronique has told me so much about you."

Erik shook the younger man's hand, noting his appearance in a sweeping glance. Not quite as tall as Veronique, with a double chin pushing against his cravat, nondescript blue eyes and thin brown hair, he was the type one would easily overlook in a crowd. "Indeed?" Erik responded to Deneuve's comment. "I was unaware that you two knew each other." He shot Veronique a pointed look, which she ignored.

Deneuve laughed a little self-consciously. "Actually, Monsieur, we met just this afternoon on the train. I had been visiting my family in Dijon before moving here to begin my duties at the Opéra-Comique. I am afraid I was terribly forward with Mlle. duPres." When Erik's eyes narrowed at that, Deneuve hastened to add, "I saw her at the station with M. Bertrand, and once she boarded the train, I introduced myself to her." He ran a finger around the edge of his cravat, as if it were too tight.

Erik felt his temper beginning to stir; thankfully, Giselle appeared and ordered everyone into the dining room. Before Deneuve could reach for her hand, Erik took Veronique by the elbow and led her to the table. He seated her and took the chair next to her, as always.

It was the dinner from hell. With every inane word that fell from the boy's mouth, Erik felt his jaw tighten a little more. Everything—from his grating laugh to his continued sidelong glances at Veronique—irritated Erik to the extreme. Under the table, he clenched his fists. How in God's name did she endure such prattle all the way from Auxerre?

Just then Veronique's hand settled over one of his, squeezing gently. She glanced at him through her lashes, seeming to ask, Please, be my patient Erik for just a little longer?

He made a conscious effort to relax his hands, turning the one so that it enveloped hers and held it tightly. She gave him a tiny smile and asked Deneuve a question about the Opéra-Comique, setting him off on yet another monologue.

In a low voice, Elisabeth excused André from the table; he picked up his plate and nearly ran into the kitchen. Giselle, Erik noted, was still smiling pleasantly at Deneuve, although he could see exasperation at the edges of it. He smiled to himself. At least I am not the only one who sees him for what he truly is.

When Deneuve complimented Giselle quite lavishly on the meal, she thanked him quietly and stood. Excusing herself, she began to stack plates and carry them to the kitchen. When she returned moments later, Erik and Veronique met her in the doorway with the glasses and cutlery. Deneuve sat alone at the table like visiting royalty.

"Hélas, Madame, I must take my leave of your gracious home," said Deneuve in a tone that grated on Giselle's nerves to no end.

"You are clear on the directions to your friend's apartment, then?" asked Giselle as she wiped the crumbs from the tablecloth. "You should be able to find a cab at the corner of the Rue Espangol and the Rue Bourgogne, three streets east of here." She put down her cloth and escorted him to the door. "Au revoir, M. Deneuve." And in the name of God, do not return any time soon!

When he heard them walking to the front door, Erik grabbed Veronique's hand and pulled her into the small pantry where she had slept when she first arrived. Carefully he closed the door behind them. "Just what did you tell him about me, Veronique?" Hands on his hips, he towered over her.

For a moment she stared at him. Ah, so this is the Opera Ghost, she thought, fighting the sharp words that threatened to escape. "Just what do you think I told him? That you were the terror of the Opéra Populaire?" He inhaled sharply and closed his eyes, turning slightly away. She shook her head. "Oh, Erik, don't you know me any better than that?"

Reaching out, she took his hand and cradled it in both of hers. "After sitting through that horrible dinner with him, you should know that he does all the talking in any conversation. All I told him was that I was taking lessons from M. Bertrand and another extraordinarily gifted musician, and he was off and running."

Erik relaxed a fraction. "You do not . . . find him handsome, then?"

"That irritating little bouffon?" Veronique gave a short bark of laughter. "No, not in the least." Understanding dawned then, and she let go of Erik's hand to slide her arms around him and hold him tightly. "No, mon grand," she whispered. "He is not handsome at all, compared to you." Pulling back, she added, "There is no other man in the world for me, mon amour."

Sighing, he rested his scarred cheek on top of her head. "Forgive me, chaton. This . . . being in love is . . . a difficult thing for me." He smiled as she moved her arms up around his neck. Bending his head to kiss her, he did not hear the steps right outside the door.

"All right, you two, you can come out of there now. Le raseur is gone." Giselle's voice made them jump guiltily.

"We'll be out in a minute," replied Erik, and bent his head again to Veronique. Their mouths met hungrily, and her hand moved down to mold his backside, while his hand found its way between them to caress her breast. She broke the kiss on a gasp, her head falling back. He nuzzled her throat, gradually working his way back to her mouth. Only when Veronique's hand tugged at the waistband of his trousers did he break free of the sensual daze and set her away from him. "Not here, ma belle, and not now. But soon, I promise." Before we both explode.

* * *

Giselle stood at the kitchen sink, washing and rinsing dishes as she chatted with Elisabeth. Mother and daughter grinned at each other when Erik and Veronique emerged from the pantry several minutes later, their faces flushed and clothing slightly askew. Giselle winked at Elisabeth then pulled a stern face as she turned to look at her two boarders, who she loved like her own children. "For God's sake, mes chéries, get married and be done with it."

"Married?" Veronique collapsed in a chair, her legs suddenly unable to support her. "Oh, Giselle, I—"

"We are not quite ready for that just yet," said Erik quickly, only to hear Giselle scoff.

"Didn't look that way to me," she said, giving Elisabeth another wink as she turned back to the dishes. Over her shoulder she added, "Why don't you go sit in the parlor? You should tell each other how you spent the day."

Holding a hand out to Veronique, Erik said, "If you are certain you don't need our help?"

* * *

Tucked in a corner of the sofa, Veronique lay in his arms, content for the moment simply to be alone with him. Erik's fingers drew patterns on the back of her hand and she turned and looked at him. "Something's troubling you, and not Deneuve le raseur," she said quietly.

Erik blew out a breath. "Today was quite an interesting day, to be sure. A woman came to the door, claiming to have been my maman's maid, before she ran away from home with my father."

Sitting up, Veronique studied his face carefully. "Was she telling the truth? Do you believe her?"

With no emotion in his voice he told her about Claire Beauvais and the questions he had asked about his mother. "Now, by coincidence, she is employed as a companion to my grand-mère. Who wants to meet me, if I agree."

Moving so that she faced him, Veronique said, "Your grand-mère is alive? Sacré bleu! Start at the beginning and do not leave anything out."

He spoke softly at first, repeating what Claire had told him about helping his maman sneak out, about Eléonore moving out of her husband's house, and the connection with Messrs. Herz and Bertrand. At some point, he stood and paced in front of the sofa. The last time that he passed by, Veronique grabbed his hand and pulled him to a stop.

"Are you going to meet her?" The question made him frown and he turned away. She got to her feet and slid her arms around him from behind. "I know you, Erik Devereaux. You will die of curiosity if you do not go to meet her." He grunted, and she smiled against his back.

After a moment he said, "I may have already met her."

Veronique released him and grabbed his arm, turning him around. "What?" She tugged until he sat on the sofa with her. "When did you meet her? And where?"

"Something that Mme. Beauvais said made me think. A couple of years ago, during the winter, there were several days of heavy rain. The roof of the Populaire started to leak. I told those fools—the managers—but they ignored me."

Veronique grinned at his description of the managers as he continued. "I thought everyone had left the lower boxes one night, and was making my way down a corridor when I heard someone fall. An older woman had slipped on a puddle. I helped her to a side entrance and secured a cab for her."

"She didn't say anything about your face?"

Erik leaned his head back against the sofa and closed his eyes. "No. I . . . used to wear a mask and my cape had a hood." He opened his eyes and sighed. "The next day I expected to see a glaring headline in L'Epoque: 'Woman Injured at Opéra Populaire; Aided by Opera Ghost', but . . . there was nothing."

They sat in silence for several minutes before Veronique asked, "What do you remember about the woman?"

"That she reminded me a little of Maman," murmured Erik, "especially her eyes." A few seconds later, he sat up. "And—her perfume was the same! I didn't remember that until just now." Excited, he got to his feet and pulled Veronique into his arms. "Will you go with me, mon coeur? When I go to meet her?"

Easing back, she cupped his face in her hands. "Oh, Erik, do you think—" She broke off when she saw the pleading look in his eyes. "All right," she whispered, "if you want me to go with you, I'll go."

* * *

Unable to sleep that night, Erik stole down to the kitchen with several sheets of paper and a pen and inkwell. How does one begin such a letter? he wondered. Somehow I do not believe 'Dear Grand-mère' would be appropriate. Biting the end of the pen, he tried to put his thoughts into some semblance of order.

With a frown he dipped the pen and began to write. After a couple of minutes he stopped, read what he had written and crumpled the paper with a grunt of dissatisfaction. Pulling another sheet of paper toward him, he began again, only to discard it seconds later.

He decided to dispense with a salutation the third time and simply wrote "Madame". Better; no false sense of affection, just straight to the point. His words seemed to flow, and a few minutes later he sat back. Absently he noticed Marguerite twining around his feet and he leaned down to scoop her into his lap. "How does this sound to you, chaton?" he asked, and proceeded to read the note to her.

" 'Madame Duvalier, Madame Claire Beauvais has given me your card and has told me that you would like to meet me. After careful consideration, I would be agreeable to an appointment with you. If next Saturday afternoon at two o'clock is convenient, please send a reply with the boy who delivers this. A young lady will be accompanying me. If you would prefer to meet with me alone, please indicate this in your reply. Your humble servant, Erik Devereaux.' "

Satisfied with the contents, Erik set the note aside to dry. A strange tingling sensation crept along his spine; it took him a moment to recognize it as apprehension. You don't have to send it, or meet with her, a voice in his head reminded him.

"True," he murmured, "but Veronique is correct. If I don't meet her, I will always wonder. And the curiosity would likely kill me."

* * *

Early Monday morning, Erik paid a neighborhood youth to take the message to Mme. Duvalier and wait for a reply. Anxiously he paced in his room, alternately urging the boy to hurry back, and damning himself for a fool. After what felt like an eternity, someone knocked on the door and Erik rushed downstairs.

The boy stood with a folded sheet of paper; Erik promptly paid him the rest of the money he'd promised and closed the door. The handwriting on the outside was quite elegant. He hesitated a moment, then turned it over and broke the wax seal. Quickly he scanned the short note, almost afraid to read too carefully. " 'M. Devereaux, I would be most pleased to welcome you this coming Saturday at two o'clock in the afternoon. Please, feel free to bring your young lady friend with you. I look forward to meeting you both. Mme. Eléonore Duvalier.' "

His heart pounding, he sat on the first riser of the stairs. His thoughts bounded this way and that, and he scrubbed his face with his hand. Sainte Mère, this week is going to last forever!

* * *

Le raseur—pest, annoying person

Bouffon—buffoon


	24. Chapter 24

**A Song in the Night**

Chapter Twenty-four

The address on the card that Claire Beauvais had given him was located in a modestly well-to-do part of the city. Luxurious flower gardens framed the house on two sides, and tall trees provided shade against the April sunshine. Erik took a deep breath and held it for several seconds, then slowly exhaled.

Veronique gave his hand a hard squeeze and they went up the three steps to the front door. Erik lifted the knocker and let it fall. Almost immediately, Claire opened the door and ushered them inside.

"Bonjour, Erik!" she said with a wide smile. "And who is this lovely young woman?"

"Mme. Beauvais, may I present Mlle. Veronique duPres, my . . . fiancée." He felt Veronique's slight jerk of surprise and knew he would need a glib explanation when they were alone. Feeling her gaze on him, he gave a slight shrug.

Claire beamed at them. "Très magnifique!" she exclaimed. "Your grand-mère's apartment is just down the hall, but she is waiting for you in the garden, enjoying the beautiful day. Please, follow me." She led them to the rear of the house, where a petite woman with gray-streaked blonde hair sat at a small round iron table.

The woman looked up as they approached and Erik felt his heart stutter. Those are Maman's eyes, he thought, swallowing hard at the surge of grief that welled up in him.

"Madame," said Claire softly, "allow me to introduce M. Erik Devereaux and Mlle. Veronique duPres."

Veronique started to curtsy, but Eléonore stopped her with a wave of her hand. "I do not hold with such formalities in my own home. Please, sit down. Claire, will you bring us some tea?"

The other woman departed and Eléonore studied them. I knew it! This is the young man who helped me that night at the Populaire. "Merci for your help that night," she said, watching for his reaction. Outwardly, he did not respond except for a slight widening of his eyes, but she knew that he realized what she had implied.

Freezing for an instant, Erik waited for what might come next. When Mme. Duvalier did not elaborate, he replied, "Mme. Beauvais mentioned that you had fallen. I . . . remembered you."

With a shudder, Eléonore said to Veronique, "It was a disastrous night, all the way 'round. The weather was ghastly, but I was determined to see the premiere of this work. Bah! A complete waste of time. The soprano should have been strangled before she sang a note."

In an aside, Erik murmured, "La Carlotta," and Veronique rolled her eyes.

"I often wondered; where in God's name did they find that woman? My cat sings better than she does," muttered Eléonore, setting her guests off in gales of laughter.

When she could speak, Veronique said, "Oh, Madame, how nice to find someone else who shares our opinion of her." She proceeded to tell what she knew of the scenery-dropping incident, and the older woman applauded when she finished.

"What a pity that you did not succeed. I wrote a note to the managers after that horrible performance and strongly suggested that they fire her. Hélas, they did not listen to me."

Claire returned with the tea tray and the four of them enjoyed a pleasant few minutes chatting about incidental things. Then Eléonore set down her cup and looked at her companion. "Claire, why don't you and Veronique go for a walk. Return in, oh, an hour or so."

When the garden gate closed behind them, the only sound was the birds twittering and the occasional rustle of the leaves overhead. Erik's palms grew damp as he waited for Eléonore to speak.

She pulled a miniature from the pocket of her dress and handed it to Erik. "We had this painted when she was sixteen," she told him softly.

He studied the small portrait, recognizing the joie de vivre he had always seen in his maman's eyes—until the consumption had stolen it, making them dull and lifeless. Clutching the miniature in his fist, he closed his eyes and willed himself not to cry.

Hearing Eléonore sniffle, he opened his eyes and saw her dabbing tears with her handkerchief. "I promised God everything, if He would bring her back to me," she whispered. "Then I prayed that she and your papa would be happy and have a long life together." She fell silent for a moment. "I would be most grateful for anything you wish to tell me, Erik."

He leaned forward and rested his forearms on the table. Sighing, he said, "I am very sorry, Madame, that none of your prayers was answered. Maman told me that my father was killed in an accident, not many days after they were married and she left home. She returned to the city and found work as a seamstress. I was born . . ."

He cleared his throat when he saw that Eléonore's eyes had filled with tears. "She fell ill when I was five years old. The consumption soon robbed her of her strength and she could no longer work. I do not remember the details, but we ended up living with the Gypsies. Maman died when I was six."

His grand-mère gave a soft cry and covered her face with her hands. "Oh, mon bébé! Ma pauvre petite!" Her sobs seemed to come from the depths of her soul.

Standing, Erik walked around the table and went down on one knee next to her. "She loved you both, very much," he said, hesitantly touching the older woman on the shoulder. This only made Eléonore cry harder, and he was at a loss as to what to do. Blindly, she reached out and he grasped her hand, holding it tightly until her tears slowed then stopped.

When she had wiped her eyes, she cupped Erik's scarred cheek. "You are the very image of my late husband, but . . . there is . . . a sweetness about you, which I can only attribute to your parents." She studied him intently. "I sense a bit of his temper in you, but you have learned to control yours, I think. He never did; it was one of many things that drove your maman away."

Erik resumed his seat, wondering what she would say if she knew what trouble his temper had caused him in the past. She chuckled and he glanced at her sharply.

"My grandson, the Opera Ghost," she murmured. Her eyes twinkled, reminding him again of his maman, and he smiled. "I seem to remember hearing that La Carlotta succumbed to a bout of croaking a few months before the demise of the Populaire." She winked at him, and they laughed. "In my opinion, you did not go far enough."

Erik must have shown his surprise, for she continued, "Oh, your grand-père would have been outraged. He was very straight-laced, and had absolutely no sense of humor. Another gift from your parents, I should think."

"Or perhaps from you, Madame," responded Erik, bringing a wide smile to her face.

"Perhaps," she agreed demurely. "Please, mon chéri, call me Eléonore. Somehow 'Grand-mère' does not seem to suit our situation." When Erik gave a nod of agreement, she said, "Henri—M. Herz—has told me that M. Bertrand swears you are a musical genius. That your skill with the violin surpasses that of my husband, who was quite a prodigy in his day."

Erik felt heat rising in his cheeks. "I admit I put on a bit of a show for M. Bertrand when he came to give Veronique her cello lesson. But I knew what he was thinking, and I . . . I simply could not help myself."

"Tell me more about your Veronique. She is quite charming. And very much in love with you, or I miss my guess." Eléonore leaned back in her chair and gave him a stern look. "You are going to marry her, aren't you?"

For the moment, he conveniently ignored her question. "We met when she literally ran into me," he said. He proceeded to give his grand-mère a condensed version of the story, mentioning their working together at Vuillaume's and living at Giselle's. He also related the incidents with Duchense, and concluded his tale with Claire's surprising visit.

Erik fell silent and for several minutes, the birdsong was the only sound to be heard. Eléonore gave him a slight smile. "Somehow, I think there is much more to your story, but I understand that you are unwilling to share anything else with someone who is essentially a complete stranger." Reaching out, she covered his hand with hers. "We will become acquainted, if that is what you decide you want, after you have had time to think about everything."

"I think . . . I would like that . . . Eléonore," said Erik. He lifted their hands and kissed hers lightly on the back.

"One thing more, before the others return," Eléonore added. "Please, believe me, on the love that I bear for your maman. I will tell no one that you were the Opera Ghost."

Erik felt himself relax a little and smiled. "I have told Veronique, and Giselle, our landlady, has said that she realized who I was several weeks ago." He looked directly at her. "I am not that man anymore. I want to have . . . a normal life . . . and perhaps even a wife and children someday." Suddenly he realized he still had the miniature of his maman and started to hand it back to Eléonore.

She shook her head. "No, mon chéri, it is yours now." He thanked her with a nod.

The garden gate creaked open, admitting Claire and Veronique. Erik stood and seated them when they approached the table. In the meantime, a fat gray cat appeared and began to twine around Eléonore's feet, meowing plaintively. "Sacré bleu!" muttered Eléonore as she tried to pick up the animal. "What have you been eating, mon ami?" Her pet sat at her feet, staring up at her soulfully.

Erik crouched next to it and held out his hand for the cat to sniff. Immediately the cat turned its head and rubbed it along Erik's fingers. "Oh, you are a fine fellow indeed," said Erik in a crooning tone. To Eléonore he added, "Will he bite or scratch if I try to pick him up?"

Laughing, she shook her head. "Oh, no, Georges never met a stranger. Or a meal he didn't like."

Erik sat with the animal in his lap, showing no concern for the gray cat hair that soon covered his black trousers. "Our landlady has several cats," he told his grandmother. "They . . . they seem to like me." Georges' rumbling purr threatened to drown out his words, and everyone smiled.

"As they did your maman," Eléonore told him, reaching over to scratch under Georges' chin. The cat's need for attention apparently satisfied, he jumped to the ground and stomped off into the flowers growing nearby.

A clock inside the house chimed the hour, and Eléonore rose. "Pardon, mes chéries, but I have another appointment soon, one made weeks ago that I cannot cancel. I must take my leave of you, much too quickly." Everyone stood and she reached for Erik's hands. "Please, come again to visit soon? And bring Veronique with you, of course." Before he could guess her intent, she rose on her tiptoes and pressed her cheek to his scarred one.

Speechless, he watched as she bid Veronique adieu and disappeared inside. Claire followed her and returned quickly with a damp cloth, which Erik used to clean away the worst of the cat hair. Then Claire escorted them to the front door and echoed her employer's invitation to return. Veronique took his arm and they went down the steps, turning to wave as they walked to the corner.

"Well," murmured Veronique. Erik did not reply. Realizing his need to sort through his feelings with no comment from her, she walked quietly beside him for several blocks. Only when they were about to go past the omnibus stop did she speak to him. "Erik?" She pulled him to a stop and he blinked at her.

"What?" He felt as though he were trying to fight his way to the top of a deep, murky well. "Oh, yes, the omnibus." They boarded with a few others and sat in the back. A couple of miles later they changed buses; Erik still did not try to make conversation.

In truth, his head was nearly spinning as he tried to absorb all that he had learned from his grand-mère. He had enjoyed being with her, he readily admitted that. She had what he suspected was a very wicked sense of humor, much like his own. I suppose only time will tell, he mused, as to what sort of person she truly is.

They were about to board the last bus when he finally spoke. "No, let's walk, if you feel up to it?" He offered his arm and Veronique took it, walking perhaps a little closer to him than necessary. Soon his hand covered hers and she smiled to herself.

Veronique's arm pressed against the miniature his grand-mère had given him, tucked in his waistcoat pocket. Merci, Grand-mère. I will treasure it always. It is invaluable to me.

"I liked your grand-mère very much," Veronique said quietly.

A full minute passed before Erik spoke. "What did you like about her, chaton?"

She smiled at him and shook her head. "You'll laugh," she insisted. He arched his eyebrow at her and she said, "But when she said those things about La Carlotta, I knew she was a woman of good sense. And . . . she likes cats."

Erik chuckled and they walked for a bit in silence. Then Veronique said, "Claire told me that when your maman ran away, your grand-mère was quite distraught, that she was the one who insisted on hiring detectives to search for her and your papa. She paid their fees with her own money, not . . . her husband's."

"Grand-mère told me that she promised God everything, if He would send Maman back to her." Veronique gasped softly, and Erik squeezed her hand. "We both know how much it hurts to lose someone we love, but to have them simply disappear, and to wonder for years what had happened to them . . ." He shook his head. "I cannot imagine what that was like." And how ironic, that we were here in the city all the time. He shook his head again, at the capriciousness of fate.

When they arrived at Giselle's, that good lady met them outside on the stoop. Her cheeks were flushed and she spoke through clenched teeth. "I don't care what you have to do, but get that simpering, nosy little fils de putain out of my house—once and for all!"

**

* * *

**

A/N: Phantom Variations: Tales from the World of the Opera Ghost is now available for purchase. More details can be found in my author profile.


	25. Chapter 25

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: We see a couple of sides of Erik here-- the Phantom, and . . . someone else . . . :-) Warning for mild sexual content.**

Chapter Twenty-five

Erik and Veronique looked at each other, and at the same time, both said, "Deneuve."

Giselle made a noise of frustration and clenched her fists. "Yes," she said, her tone one of utter disgust. "He showed up here about an hour ago, and for the last fifty-nine minutes, I have been trying to get rid of him!"

Taking a deep breath, she held it for several seconds then let it out slowly. "If you must be rude to him, so be it. Just make him understand, in no uncertain terms, that he is not welcome here. I tried to explain it to him myself, but he ignored me completely. I was about to take my broom to him when I saw you coming down the street."

Erik murmured, "I will do my best," and left the women on the threshold. He paused a moment outside the parlor to straighten his cravat and jacket, then entered the room to find Deneuve ensconced in the best chair like visiting royalty. "M. Deneuve, what brings you here today?" Erik asked him, wasting no time on pleasantries.

"Why, I simply came to visit M. Tremaine—"

Erik cut him off with a wave of his hand. "Do not insult my intelligence, Deneuve." He advanced toward the other man, his fingers twitching for his lasso. Hélas, that I have forsaken such things. "I ask you again. For what reason have you come here today? Which one of us are you trying to ferret out information on, so that you can attempt to blackmail us later?"

Deneuve swallowed noisily, and looked around him for any avenue of escape. There was none. Mesmerized as Erik moved toward him, he tried to deny the accusation, but the only sound that emerged from his throat was a squeak.

Erik halted a foot away and leaned down, placing his hands on the arms of the chair. "Listen carefully to me, Deneuve. I am not a man who repeats himself. You are not welcome in this house. Mme. Tremaine does not want to see you on her doorstep, or anywhere else nearby, ever again." His voice deepened, became more menacing. "If you should foolishly decide to ignore this warning, you will be dealing with me. That is something you do not want to do, Monsieur. Do you understand me?"

Deneuve nodded, his head bobbing up and down like a puppet's. "Very good," said Erik. He helped the other man stand and escorted him to the door. "Remember, Monsieur, if you return here, you will deal with me."

The door closed behind him with a quiet snick, snapping François Deneuve out of his daze. He could feel the heat radiating from his cheeks, and knew without a doubt they were as red as cherries. He tried to act nonchalant as he put his hand to his throat, as if checking the folds of his cravat. Raising his chin, he went down the steps unhurriedly.

He needn't have bothered. No one was on the street to notice his departure. Angrily he stomped to the omnibus stop, only to have to stand and wait several minutes until the next one trundled to a stop. Fuming, he paid his fare and walked to the rear of the conveyance, dusting the seat with his handkerchief before sitting.

How dare he treat me in such a manner! Just who does that scarred nobody think he is? If he's such a magnificent musician, why isn't he playing in an orchestra? Or giving solo concerts? It's not like he couldn't wear a mask to cover up that ugly face . . .

'Musician' and 'mask' made Deneuve sit back in his seat, his mouth slightly agape. Could he . . . Could he be . . . "The Opera Ghost!?"

* * *

After dinner that evening, Veronique sat outside on the front steps, enjoying the warm breeze, watching André playing with some of the neighborhood children. Erik soon joined her and she gave him an irritated look. "Why did you introduce me to your grand-mère as your fiancée?" she asked.

Erik swallowed. "It . . . it seemed easier, somehow," he murmured.

"Easier than what?" she retorted, and he felt the noose tighten around his neck.

He took her hand and sandwiched it between his. "You do believe that I love you, don't you, Veronique?"

He sounded very uncertain, and in her heart she knew she couldn't torment him for long. She turned her head and looked at him, not seeing the scars, only the good man she knew him to be. "Yes," she answered. "It was just a shock, to hear you say it to someone else, before you have even asked me."

"Will you, chaton?" She continued to stare at him, and he brought their joined hands up to his mouth, lightly kissing hers. "Will you marry me, mon coeur, and make me the happiest man alive?"

It felt like an eternity before she nodded, and buried herself in his arms. "Yes," she whispered, "and I will be the luckiest woman on earth."

"Do you truly believe that, chérie? I—"

Veronique eased out of his embrace and took his face in her hands. "Be quiet, Erik, and kiss me," she demanded. She took his mouth hungrily and after a moment, he pulled her tight against him. He plundered her mouth as he never had before, their bodies straining against each other.

Childish laughter broke them apart, their faces flaming as they realized they had an audience. Without a word they stood and went inside the house. As soon as Erik closed the door behind them, Veronique went back into his arms. Reaching around him, she pulled the tail of his shirt free from his trousers and slid her hands up his back.

His hand came up and cupped her breast, his thumb making several passes over her nipple. She gave a soft cry and he covered her mouth with his. A sudden crash of glass jerked them apart; they stood with their foreheads touching, trying to calm their breathing. "I think," said Erik shakily, "we should get married soon."

"Must we wait until we're married?" The question popped out before Veronique could stop it. She buried her face in the curve of his neck, nibbling on his skin, savoring the slightly salty taste of him.

Beads of sweat dotted his upper lip and he moaned. Other parts of his body threatened to overrule his brain and for an instant he considered where they might go to be alone. But there is nowhere! Putting his hands on her shoulders, he moved her away from him, stared into her heavy-lidded eyes. "Yes, chaton, we must wait."

She pouted and he smiled, in spite of the painful condition of his aroused body. "Let's go tell Giselle the news; I'm sure she'll want to begin preparations immediately."

* * *

The next day, after a long and grueling rehearsal at the Opéra Comique, the musicians stood in small groups, talking in low voices about the new concertmaster. "Where in God's name did they find this bouffon?" asked one of the trumpeters. "He was consistently a beat behind M. Courtois the entire rehearsal."

One of the bassists scoffed. "You think that's bad? You should have to play with the bowing he gave us! Impossible!"

"Sainte Mère, how many times did we stop and start over?" The pianist shook his head.

The principal cellist added, "My five-year old daughter can play better than he."

"Shh! Here he comes!" the oboist said, and nearly everyone scattered.

Deneuve approached those remaining with a big smile. "Pardon, Laurent, but do you have a moment?" he asked, jerking his chin at the man with whom Laurent Hebert was talking.

The other man nodded at Laurent and said they could continue their discussion at a later time.

Impatiently Deneuve waited until there was no one within earshot. He smiled again and said, "You came to us from the Opéra Populaire, did you not?"

The assistant principal violist gritted his teeth. He had not liked Deneuve from the moment he clapped eyes on him, and his overbearing ways and general lack of common courtesy grated on Laurent's nerves—and most of the other orchestra members as well. "Yes," he replied finally. "When the Populaire was destroyed, I auditioned here, and was hired as soon as there was a vacancy in the viola section."

"And how many years did you play in the orchestra at the Populaire?"

Deneuve tried to adopt a friendly air, but Laurent saw behind his false smile and apparently innocuous question. Determined to tell him as little as possible, Laurent began to make his way back to the orchestra pit to collect his instrument case and retrieve his music. "I played with them for five years," he said, hoping against hope that he could escape soon.

"So, you were there long enough to hear most of the rumors about the Ghost?"

Deneuve trailed behind him, therefore not seeing the violist cross his eyes and stick out his tongue. With a short laugh, he opened his viola case and carefully laid his instrument inside. "Mon Dieu, I should think everyone in Paris has heard all the rumors about the Ghost," said Laurent sarcastically. "Where have you been, Deneuve? Out of the country?"

Deneuve's face turned pink and he started to upbraid Laurent for his impertinence. After all, he was the concertmaster! But before he could speak, the other man pushed past him.

"You will have to excuse me, Deneuve. I must hurry. My daughter is sick and I need to stop at the chemist's." With that, he strode out of the orchestra pit and left Deneuve staring after him.

* * *

There were no rehearsals scheduled for the next two days, and on the second day, Laurent made a trip to Vuillaume's to check on the possibility of having a child-sized instrument made. He had heard from a friend about the wonderful new violin he'd had made there, and how the fellow who had made it played better than he did. Laurent believed he knew who that person was. When he stepped through the door, the first person he saw was Erik. Erik looked up and Laurent gave him a slight nod.

As he passed Erik's worktable, unobtrusively he dropped a small folded piece of paper. On it he had asked Erik to meet him when he finished work for the day. After speaking with M. Robilliard about his request, he left the shop and went to the arranged place for the meeting.

Not long afterward, Erik arrived. "Laurent," he said, "what has happened?" They had become acquainted when Laurent first joined the orchestra at the Populaire and had gotten completely lost in the bowels of the opera house. Somehow, he found himself in the chapel, just as Erik was leaving. The two men were equally startled, but "the Ghost" had not threatened him in any way and they had become friends of a sort.

Now, Laurent frowned at him. "That little salaud, Deneuve, was asking me about playing in the Populaire's orchestra. What rumors had I heard about the Ghost, and so on." He ran his hands through his rust-colored hair and made a sound of disgust. "I told him only that I had played for M. Reyer for five years, and said nothing about rumors."

Sighing, Erik leaned back against the wall. "Merde. We had a slight . . . disagreement the other day, and I escorted him out of my landlady's house with a stern warning never to return."

"Well, I just wanted to tell you that he's snooping." The violist stopped and swallowed hard. "I can never repay you for what you did for Madeline and Juliette and me," he said quietly. Money for their rent had mysteriously appeared in his cubbyhole in the orchestra's rehearsal room on a couple of occasions, always just in the nick of time.

Erik waved away his thanks. "I know what it is to be cold and hungry," he murmured. "That should never happen to a child." Straightening, he added, "Merci for the warning." He clapped Laurent on the shoulder and left.

On the ride home, Erik was strangely quiet, and Veronique gave him several questioning looks. "I'll explain when we reach Giselle's," he said softly, "where there are not so many ears."

That piqued her curiosity and she was fairly bursting with it by the time they arrived at the boarding house. Erik made her wait until after dinner, suggesting that they help Giselle with the dishes.

"Oh, mes chéries, you cannot know how happy you have made me with your engagement." Giselle beamed at them when they came into the kitchen. "We should discuss when and where, and all that."

Bending down, Erik kissed her cheek. "Unfortunately, we have something else to discuss with you at the moment." They took seats at the table and he said, "An acquaintance of mine told me today that Deneuve is still snooping, asking questions about the Opera Ghost."

Both women uttered mild oaths, and he nodded. "My sentiments, as well." Sighing, he scrubbed his face with one hand. "I know what my reaction would have been several months ago, but . . ."

Veronique grinned at him. "But now you are a reformed Ghost," she said, making Giselle and Erik chuckle.

After a moment, Giselle said, "Perhaps we should do some snooping of our own." She stood and went to the stove, set water to boil for tea. Returning to the table, she asked, "Your friend, the one who warned you? I presume he was the person from whom Deneuve was trying to get information?"

Erik nodded, and Giselle continued, "Talk to him again in a few days. See what he can tell you about Deneuve the musician. I have always had the feeling that something was just a little suspicious about him."


	26. Chapter 26

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: Warning for sexual content. ;-)**

Chapter Twenty-six

Erik smiled to himself as he tested the doorknob. It turned silently, and with a glance in both directions, he slipped through a side door of the building housing the Opéra-Comique.

Taking a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness, he listened to the sounds of the opera house coming awake—pans rattling and banging in the kitchen, doors opening and closing, lumber for new scenery being delivered.

He realized with a bit of surprise that he did not miss his former life. His current one—Deneuve le raseur notwithstanding—was much better than he could have ever imagined.

Erik shook himself out of his reverie and set off toward the rehearsal rooms. He located Laurent's folder of music and slid an unsigned note between the pages of the score for the production currently in rehearsal. That accomplished, he made his way out of the building as easily as he had entered.

The Opéra-Comique was located a few blocks from Eléonore's apartment, and Erik decided to take the chance that she would be at home on such a lovely spring morning. When he arrived, Claire was just leaving, on her way to the market, and she told him Eléonore was in the garden.

Kneeling in front of some roses, she shaded her eyes and saw him standing by the table. "Mon chéri! What a delightful surprise!" He helped her to her feet and she gave him a kiss on both cheeks. "Sit down, and I'll bring us some tea." Before he could refuse, she disappeared inside, returning several minutes later with a small tray.

"Now, what has brought you here this morning?" Pouring them both a cup of tea, she sat back with a sigh. "And where is your darling fiancée?"

He felt his cheeks heat, and said, "To be perfectly honest, I had not actually asked Veronique to marry me when we were here before." He held up a hand when he saw Eléonore about to speak, and added quickly, "I have asked her, and she said yes." Although that fact still amazes me tremendously. "We have not decided on a date, or have even arranged to have the banns read yet."

"But you will soon, n'est-ce pas? Oh, mon chèr fils, I am so happy for you!" His grand-mère dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. "You and Veronique will be very happy together, I can feel it."

How strange it seems to have another person feel happy for me about something, he thought. First Giselle, now my grand-mère. This will take some getting used to. "As for this morning," he shrugged. "I happened to be nearby, and thought I would see if you were receiving visitors."

"Oh, I wish you had come by yesterday," said Eléonore. "I would have asked you to accompany me to a concert last night." She shook her head. "But on second thought, it is probably better that you did not. It was atrocious."

"What performance did you attend?"

Eléonore shuddered. "A concert by the orchestra of the Opéra-Comique. It was—indescribable, actually. Several people I knew walked out after the first selection. To be quite honest, I am thinking of withdrawing my patronage of the Comique if this continues."

Erik's ears perked up at that. "They recently hired a new concertmaster, didn't they?"

Eléonore nearly choked on her tea. "Mon Dieu, he is an idiot! I tell you, Erik, I have never heard such horrendous, incompetent playing in my life—even from youngsters just learning!" She shook her head. "Something is amiss at the Comique. This gosse was hired very quickly and if I remember correctly, without the usual auditions."

After a moment, she nodded decisively. "I believe it is time that I looked into this—discreetly, of course. It is obvious to anyone with ears that this ignorant is not at all qualified for the position."

She looked at him speculatively and Erik shook his head. "No, Eleonore, absolutely not," he said firmly. "It would be far too easy for someone to make the connection." If Deneuve could put it together . . . He held her gaze until she nodded. "I prefer my job at Vuillaume's, hiding in plain sight, as it were."

"I suppose this also means you won't allow me to host a big wedding for you and Veronique," she said with a frown.

"We have not spoken much about it, but I think both of us want something small and quiet," Erik told her. "But you will be my guest of honor, and Claire, of course. I would imagine that M. Bertrand will 'give the bride away'," he mused. After a moment he added, "As soon as a date and time are arranged, I will tell you."

She beamed at him. "If there is anything I might do for you, chéri, you will permit me, will you not?"

He nodded. "Anything within reason, Eléonore."

Realizing she had pressed him as far as she dared, she sighed. "In regard to this 'problem' at the Comique," she said, "perhaps I will also speak to some of my friends who are also patrons. This reflects badly on all of us, really."

* * *

Erik boosted himself onto a rafter high above the stage of the Opéra-Comique. After his conversation with his grand-mère yesterday, he decided to "drop in" and watch a rehearsal of L'italiana in Algieri.

The musicians wandered in first, carrying their instruments. A few minutes later the chorus arrived, fresh from their warm-up in another room. Then some of the principal singers appeared. Erik recognized some former members of the Populaire's chorus who had advanced to larger roles.

Deneuve scurried in moments later, his face pink and wearing an irritated look, much like a small boy who has just been scolded. Erik grinned. You have a knack for aggravating everyone around you, don't you, boy? You'll need to watch your step when dealing with my grand-mère.

M. Courtois, the conductor, made his way to the orchestra pit as the oboist sounded the A and the rest of the orchestra began to tune. Tapping his baton smartly on his music stand, he drew everyone's attention. "We will begin working on Act II today," he said, flipping his score to the appropriate page. The soprano and the contralto took their places on the stage and began to sing at a cue from M. Courtois.

But within minutes he was forced to stop the music. He glared at Deneuve, who returned the look as innocently as possible. High above them, Erik muffled a snort of disgust. The conductor and Deneuve had a very short conversation, after which M. Courtois returned to the podium and raised his baton.

Erik smiled as the second-chair violinist gave Deneuve a strange look as the orchestra played the introduction for the soprano. Deneuve appeared to be playing, but since the orchestra remained precisely in tempo with M. Courtois, obviously he was not. Why are you tolerating this bouffon? wondered Erik. He must be blackmailing you, or is threatening to do so.

Having seen enough, Erik slipped down from his hiding place and made his way outside. After checking his watch, he saw that he had been in the rehearsal for only an hour. It had seemed much longer. His conversation the day before with Eléonore came to mind, and he set off in the direction of several shops. He had an important purchase to make.

* * *

Humming to himself, Erik took the front steps of Giselle's two at a time. A movement caught his eye as he reached for the doorknob and he turned to look at the house next door. Piles of furniture decorated the small front yard, and a very glum boy sat on the ground next to one of them.

Erik turned and went back down the steps, slowly crossed to where the boy sat. The boy watched him approach and Erik crouched down a few feet away. "Marcel, what is the matter?" he asked, seeing evidence of tears on the boy's face.

"We—we have to move away," Marcel answered, his voice quavering.

"I am very sorry to hear that," murmured Erik. André and Marcel were good friends, he knew, and he and the boys had spent some very enjoyable time together in the past months. "It looks as though you will be leaving soon," Erik said. "I know André will miss you. As will Mme. Tremaine, Mme. Marek, Mlle. duPres and myself." He gave Marcel a squeeze on the shoulder and stood. "Are your parents inside?" he asked as an afterthought.

Marcel nodded and swiped his nose on the back of his hand. "Maman is in the kitchen."

A few minutes later, Erik emerged from the house, knowing that a portion of his remaining money from the opera would be doing some good. He entered Giselle's, and went straight up to his room. He needed to make some plans.

After dinner that evening Erik coaxed Veronique away from the table. "Come, chaton, let's go for a walk."

Looking puzzled, she followed him down the hall and out the front door. Once they reached the sidewalk, he tugged her hand up to rest on his forearm and they strolled to the end of the street, where it made a little curve before intersecting with the Rue Blanc.

Giselle and some of the other homeowners had made a little park in the curve, planting flowers and shrubbery and placing a couple of wooden benches facing each other. Erik guided Veronique to one of them and seated her. She looked up at him questioningly.

He pulled a small box from his trouser pocket and handed it to her. "I hope—I hope you like it, mon coeur."

Slowly she opened the lid and gasped. On the cotton batting laid a gold ring, set with a round diamond flanked by two smaller emeralds. Tears flooded her eyes and she stared at him, speechless.

"You don't like it?" He went down on one knee in front of her, feeling a touch of panic. "We can take it back, ma doux, and get—"

She pressed her fingertips to his mouth to silence him. "No, we are not taking this back. I love it, Erik, truly! I was—just surprised. I never expected anything like this."

With a shout of laughter he scooped her of the bench and twirled her around in a circle. When he set her down, she handed him the ring and extended her hand. Solemnly he slid the ring on her finger; it fit perfectly, the stones winking at them in the fading light.

Raising her hand, he kissed the ring, and she melted against him. After a moment, he eased back and curved a knuckle under her chin. Their mouths met in a soft, sweet kiss that soon became hot and passionate.

Erik's hand had just slid down to cup her bottom when a long whistle, followed by loud laughter, split the stillness of the night. Veronique blushed furiously; Erik scanned their surroundings, trying to see if someone was hiding in the shadows.

Seeing no one, he curved an arm protectively around Veronique and they began to walk back to Giselle's.

"Soon?" Veronique asked hopefully.

"Yes, chérie. Soon, I promise." But not nearly soon enough!

* * *

Three days later

"Keep your eyes closed, Veronique," said Erik sternly. "No peeking." Carefully he guided her up the stairs and reached around her to open the door. As soon as they were inside, he said, "All right, you can open your eyes now."

She blinked, and looked at him over her shoulder. "Where are we?"

Taking her arm, he led her down the hallway to the first door. "This is the house next door, where Marcel and his parents lived. M. Valle has a new job in Rouen, and . . . I have bought the house."

Veronique threw her arms around his neck with a squeal, nearly toppling them to the floor. She peppered his face and neck with kisses, making Erik chuckle. Finally he pried her hands from around his neck and said, "I take it this meets with your approval?"

Nodding, she slid her arms around his waist and sighed. "Oh, yes." They stood for a couple of minutes, savoring the silence then she eased back and said, "This was the parlor, I suppose. Let's look at the rest of the rooms."

Hand in hand they went through all the rooms on the first floor: the dining room, the kitchen, a pantry, a small water closet, and a room they decided would be a library. Climbing the stairs, they found three bedrooms, a linen closet and a larger water closet with a bathtub.

Standing in the largest of the bedrooms, Veronique glanced around, mentally filling it with furniture. Erik came up behind her and put his arms around her, pulling her back against his chest. "The bed should go here, don't you think?" she said, gesturing to the wall opposite the window. He nibbled on her neck in reply, and all thoughts of furniture went right out of her head. She turned in his arms and kissed him, making him growl when she slid her hands down inside the back of his trousers and squeezed his backside.

Erik scooped her up in his arms and carried her to a faded upholstered bench that the Valles had left behind. He sat down and Veronique straddled his lap, pulling his shirt tail free while he attacked the buttons on the bodice of her dress. Within seconds he had her undressed to her chemise and she had opened his shirt and spread the cloth wide.

Fingertips calloused by years of playing the violin traced her collarbone and left a trail of goose bumps in their wake. Gently he cupped both breasts and dragged his thumbs over the stiff peaks pressing against the thin material; she moaned and squirmed on his lap. One hand moved to her back; the other up to her shoulder and eased the strap of her chemise out of the way. When the cloth fell, revealing the dark pink nipple, Erik bent his head and took it in his mouth, suckling tenderly.

Veronique cried out, and clutched his shoulders. Hot and cold sensations rushed over her, and she would have gone limp, if not for Erik's arm supporting her. She squirmed again, trying to get closer to him, feeling the hardness of his arousal pressed against her woman's place.

In a split second she found herself on her back, Erik looming over her. She raised her arms and pulled him down, relishing his weight upon her and the feeling of bare skin to bare skin. In the near silence, their heavy breathing was the only sound—until the front door opened and Giselle's voice floated up the stairs.

"Mes chéries? Erik's grand-mère has come to visit."

* * *

gosse—youngster

L'italiana in Algieri is an opera by Gioachino Rossini, supposedly written in only 18 days. First performed in 1813, its principal roles are for bass, soprano, tenor and contralto. Fred Plotkin, author of Opera 101 and for many years performance manager of the Metropolitan Opera, has this to say about Rossini: "Rossini was the first great Italian composer of the 19th century. The sparkling sound of his music, and the alleged facility with which he wrote it, are prime reasons for its being discounted by 'serious' music lovers. Add to this the fact that his best-known works are comedies, which are wrongly considered by many to be the poor cousins of serious opera, and Rossini is frequently undervalued."


	27. Chapter 27

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: In case you don't remember-- ;-)-- Erik and Veronique were about to become quite "intimate", when they were rudely interrupted...**

Chapter Twenty-seven

Her words had the effect of a sudden dousing with icy water. Still gasping for breath, Erik and Veronique stared at each other; after a few seconds he got to his feet and walked into the hallway.

"Merci, Giselle," he called. "We'll be right there." He pulled the edges of his shirt together and began to button it. Glancing into the room, he saw that Veronique had restored her chemise to its proper position; now she was trying to re-button the bodice of her dress, but her fingers refused to cooperate.

With a faint smile he went to her and pulled her to her feet. "Here, chaton, let me help you," he murmured. When all her buttons were fastened, he pressed a kiss to her forehead. "We'll speak to the priest tomorrow about the banns, all right?"

She nodded happily and they went down to meet Eléonore and Giselle. Both older women smiled and gave them knowing looks but said nothing. After a quick tour of the downstairs, they went back to Giselle's and sat at the kitchen table, drinking tea and making plans for the wedding. Erik felt his admiration for Veronique rise; several times she held firm against the older women when they tried to insist on something she did not want.

Finally, everything was decided: the priest would marry them in Giselle's parlor. There would be only a few guests: Giselle, Elisabeth, André, Eléonore, Claire, and M. Bertrand. Then the conversation turned to fabrics, lace and ribbons, and Erik escaped to his room.

A melody had been nagging him for the last hour or so; he picked up a pen and staff paper and joined Marguerite on the bed. She opened one eye and looked at him. He rubbed the top of her head with his fingertip. "Perhaps you will come and live with Veronique and me, eh, chérie?" he said. "I am certain Samson will be coming to visit us next door."

The little cat stood and arched her back then turned and lay down again in the same spot. Erik chuckled and began to scribble down the notes of the new song in his head. From time to time laughter from the kitchen drifted up to him; idly he wondered if they were talking about him.

"Ah, no matter, chaton," he said, laying aside his pen and paper. The clock downstairs chimed once and he checked his watch. Immediately he stood and went to the water closet. In an hour he was scheduled to meet with Laurent, to see what had been discovered about Deneuve.

* * *

Erik paced in the alley behind Vuillaume's, checking his watch several times. Laurent was late, and that was unlike him. Erik decided to wait a few more minutes; just then, the other man rounded the corner at a brisk walk.

"A pox on Deneuve," Laurent said angrily as he approached. "He barely knows one end of the violin from the other, yet the entire orchestra is to blame for the tongue-lashing he received from M. Courtois." Taking a deep breath, he let it out slowly and said, "I am sorry. I hope you have not been waiting too long."

Waving away the apology, Erik leaned back against the brick wall and crossed one ankle over the other. "It sounds as though you have quite a bit to tell me."

"Jesu, where to begin?" Laurent dragged a hand through his hair. "I, um, slipped into the managers' office and discovered that there are no records for Deneuve. Everyone else has a file, showing the date of our audition, the first date of employment, rate of pay, and for most of us, a diploma from the conservatoire or music academy where we studied. But not him. There is nothing." Frowning, he said, "Nothing that I could find, at any rate. I wasn't able to look in the safe, but . . ."

Erik arched an eyebrow. "Indeed," he murmured. "I wonder how they will account for his salary, then."

Chuckling, Laurent sat on an upturned crate. "Alexandre, one of the percussionists, pretended to befriend Deneuve. They went to dinner together, and Alexandre said he had never heard the names of so many famous musicians and composers used in one conversation in his life. And when he asked Deneuve where he had met a couple of them, le raseur stammered and could not give him a definite answer."

After a moment, Erik said, "I know someone who is a patroness of the Comique, someone who attended a recent concert performance." Laurent closed his eyes and muttered under his breath, making the sign of the cross. With a grin Erik added, "She was of the same opinion, even mentioned that she might speak to some of her friends who are also patrons about ending their sponsorship."

"If the patrons decide to withdraw their support, and if the revenues drop sufficiently, the management would be forced to fire him, wouldn't they?" asked the violist hopefully.

Erik shrugged. "Honestly, I doubt it," he replied. "It's very likely he would turn it around so that others get fired, instead. From what you have said, it appears that Deneuve is blackmailing someone in the opera's management. In order to get rid of him, we must find a way to diffuse his threat, and expose him for the charlatan he is."

Laurent made a sound of agreement and both men fell silent. Erik pushed away from the wall and paced a few feet away. Hands on his hips, he stared at the ground, not seeing the dirt and refuse. Turning back to Laurent, he said, "We need to know where Deneuve supposedly studied music. Then contact them and see what they say about him."

"Yes, an excellent idea," Laurent agreed. "All of us in the orchestra can testify to his lack of musical skills and knowledge." He got to his feet and offered Erik his hand. "I will be in contact with you as soon as I have more information. The sooner we get rid of this bouffon, the better."

* * *

Two days later

Veronique took a deep breath, ordering her heart to slow down. The knock on the door came again and she exhaled, turned the knob and pulled open the door.

As she expected, Erik's grand-mère and Claire stood on the stoop. "Bonjour, chérie!" said Eléonore. "We are not too early, are we?" she asked as Veronique ushered them into the parlor.

"No, Mme. Eléonore. We were just finishing in the kitchen. I'll tell Giselle and Elisabeth that you have arrived." The five of them were going shopping for a wedding dress for Veronique, and she felt excited and nervous at the same time.

When she entered the kitchen, Giselle had removed her apron and was rolling down the sleeves of her dress. "Eléonore and Claire are here?"

Veronique nodded, then blurted out, "I'm afraid, Giselle! I think I'm beginning to understand why Erik's parents ran away and got married."

"Marriage can be frightening, I grant you that," replied the older woman, sliding her arm around the girl's shoulders. "You're not having second thoughts about Erik, are you?"

"Oh, no! I love him with all my heart," insisted Veronique. "It's just all this . . . hoopla beforehand."

Her landlady and friend gave her a brief hug and released her. "That is why we are all going with you—we want to help you, as much as you will permit. Now, scoot upstairs and get your reticule and we'll set out."

The group visited several shops, not finding anything Veronique deemed suitable. Eléonore treated them to lunch, and fortified with a good meal and a bottle of wine, they continued their mission.

The sight of a fat calico cat sunning itself in the window drew Veronique to a tiny shop. Opening the door, a small bell tinkled merrily, and a voice called from behind a curtain, "Bienvenue! I will be with you in just a moment." The cat's ear twitched at the sound of the voice, but otherwise it did not move. Veronique smiled and looked around the room.

Bolts of silks, satins, brocades, and velvets filled the shelves on the walls and one in particular stood out like a beacon. Ivory silk shimmered as though covered in sunshine and Veronique knew she had found the perfect fabric. She walked directly to it, carefully rubbed a corner between her fingers and sighed. She turned to Giselle and the others with a dreamy smile. "This is exactly what I have been looking for," she said.

The owner of the shop, a petite woman with steel-gray hair, came over to her and pulled the bolt from the shelf. "Oh, yes, Mademoiselle, this is some of our finest silk." Deftly she flipped the cumbersome roll over a couple of times and draped a length of silk across Veronique's shoulder and around her neck. "Turn around and look, Mademoiselle," she said, touching Veronique on the elbow.

The other women sighed appreciatively at her reflection in the mirror. "Oh, ma fille, you will be a beautiful bride," Giselle told her, pulling her handkerchief from her sleeve and dabbing her eyes.

Claire and Elisabeth both nodded; Eléonore leaned forward and kissed her on both cheeks. "You will allow me to buy this for you, won't you, ma chérie? Let this be my wedding gift to you," she said.

Blinking away tears, Veronique nodded, and hugged her. After a moment she stepped back and allowed the shopkeeper to remove the silk. "I need to look at your plates for wedding dresses, Madame," Veronique said, her eye catching on some lace across the shop that was barely a shade darker than the silk. She walked over and picked it up, carrying it to the table where the others were taking seats.

The owner disappeared for a minute and returned with a stack of dress plates, setting them in front of Veronique. Most of them she quickly discarded—too many ruffles, the train was too long, the bustle too large. Finally she came to a dress with a slimmer outline. The bodice of the dress had cap sleeves, nearly more off the shoulder than on. The overskirt gathered in the back on top of a small bustle, and Veronique loved it at first glance. "This one," she said firmly, "with this lace for the overskirt."

The shop owner eyed the dress design critically, her gaze moving between it, the bolt of silk and the lace. Finally she nodded. "We will also use the lace on the bodice," she said, "a V-shaped inset that ends just above the waist. If you agree, Mademoiselle?"

* * *

That evening, when Erik came looking for Veronique to begin her cello lesson, he found her in the kitchen. She was frowning heavily at some papers spread out on the table. He walked up behind her and dropped a kiss on the nape of her neck.

Startled, she smothered a yelp and gave him an irritated look. "You frightened me!" she said, turning back to her papers.

"I'm sorry, chaton." When she did not respond, he pulled out a chair and sat down. "What has you frowning so, Veronique?"

"Do you have any idea how much we have to accomplish in the next three weeks?" she asked. "If we are to move into our house as soon as we are married, we must buy furniture, a stove and an icebox for the kitchen, curtains, rugs . . ." She scowled at her lists again.

And I must do my best to remove the threat of Deneuve from our lives in that time, also. "Some of your furniture is still in the attic, isn't it?" She nodded, and he said, "Don't worry about it, mon coeur. I have . . . a little money put aside, so we should be able to buy what we must have to start." He shrugged. "As for the rest, that is part of owning a house, of having a home. You shouldn't expect to have everything you need from the very beginning."

"But—"

He stood and pulled her up into his arms. "No buts, chérie. Everything will be done in time—trust me." Reaching up, he smoothed away the frown between her eyes with his thumb then pressed a kiss to the spot. "Don't fret so, mon amour. Before you know it, we will be standing before the priest, and the magistrate, and then . . . we will be alone in our house."

"That sounds nice," she murmured, leaning back to give him a sultry look. " 'Alone in our house'."

"With a deadbolt lock on the front door," muttered Erik, making her giggle as she went back into his arms.

After a moment, she said, "I don't believe I have ever been so embarrassed in my life. Do you—do you think they knew?"

Nodding, he ran his hand slowly up and down her back. "They are both widowed women with children, chaton. What do you think?"

"Oh," she said in a tiny voice, feeling her cheeks heat.

They stood with their arms around each other, lost in thought. Finally Erik said, "There are things in my past that I am not proud of, mon coeur. Part of me would like nothing more than to sneak into our house with you right now and . . ." He stopped and cleared his throat. "But I would rather die than dishonor you, or have anyone think ill of you. So . . . we must wait, ma belle."

"I understand," she told him. "I don't like it, but I understand."

They both sighed heavily, and muttered at the same time, "These will be the longest three weeks of my life!"


	28. Chapter 28

**A Song in the Night **

**A/N: After this chapter, only two remain until this story is finished. Heartfelt thanks to all who have been reading, and most especially those who have left a review. **

Chapter Twenty-eight

Six days later

Laurent returned to Vuillaume's to check on the instrument for his daughter, and found Erik working on it.

Cursing under his breath, Erik could not fit his fingers into the body of the half-size viola. He glanced over his shoulder and called to a pretty young woman with bronze-colored hair. "Please, Mlle. Veronique, come and help me. My fingers are too large for this."

She propped her broom in the corner and came to his side immediately. "Oh, I see what you're doing," she murmured. "Let me see if I can reach it."

Laurent cleared his throat and spoke to Erik. "When might I expect the instrument to be finished, Monsieur?"

Turning, Erik looked at his friend for a long moment before answering. "I am afraid that it will be at least another week, Monsieur." He nodded once and returned to his work. In a voice only Veronique could hear, he said, "Can you continue from this point for a little while?"

She murmured in agreement and he walked in the direction of the water closet. After checking to see if anyone was watching him, he slipped out the door and met Laurent in the alley.

"What have you discovered?" Seeing Laurent's huge smile, Erik added, "It must be quite damning information, indeed."

"Deneuve had only been a student at the Royal Conservatory in The Hague for a month before all his instructors asked him to leave, saying he had a minimal aptitude for music," Laurent said. "The conductors of orchestras that he had supposedly played with after his graduation had never heard of him."

Erik grinned. "Nothing is sweeter than success, eh? You have all this information in writing, and locked away from prying eyes?"

Laurent nodded. "Yes, we have several telegrams, with names and appropriate titles. That should be sufficient." He danced a little jig in the alley. "How soon can we present this evidence and get rid of him?"

"Let me speak to the person I mentioned, the patroness who was so appalled by the concert a few weeks ago. She should be the one to spearhead this; otherwise it will appear to be merely disgruntled employees trying to make trouble."

"Attendance has been down considerably in the last week or so. For the first time in my life, I dread going to work, knowing that ignorant will be there, ruining music for all of us who love it so much." Laurent blew out a deep breath. "I will await word from you that you need the information that I have."

Erik nodded. "I will leave a note in the usual place." He and the other man shook hands and Erik returned to his work.

Veronique had managed to accomplish what he had been unable to, and had set the small instrument aside to allow the glue to dry. Erik looked at what she had done and told her, "Très bien, Mlle. Veronique." In a softer voice, he added, "Would you like to stop at Eléonore's on the way home? I need to speak to her."

* * *

Later that evening, the three of them sat in the garden, enjoying the cool breeze. Erik absently scratched his grand-mère's cat behind his ears as he told her that he had proof that Deneuve was vastly unqualified to be the concertmaster of the Opéra-Comique.

Eléonore clapped her hands. "Oh, merveilleux! I have spoken to several of my friends, and they are as disgusted with the quality of the music there as I am. All of us are ready to withdraw our patronage immediately."

"There is one problem that remains, though. How do we insure that Deneuve leaves the city and does not ever return, much less to snoop again about the Ghost?" Veronique asked.

"What is this? Snooping about the Ghost?" Eléonore fixed a stern look on Erik. He returned her look calmly, and she knew that a part of him would always be the Opera Ghost, no matter what direction his life took from this point. "Tell me everything," she said.

Erik and Veronique looked at each other, and she began to explain. "I met him on the train from Auxerre," she said. "I suppose he must have seen me with M. Bertrand and recognized him, because once the train set off for Paris, he approached me and introduced himself."

"Knowing what I do about him now, I'm certain he invited himself to dinner, leaving Veronique little choice but to bring him along," added Erik. "Veronique introduced us and a few days later, he appeared at Giselle's, quite uninvited, and refused to leave until I . . . insisted. With Giselle's blessing, I told him he was not to return under any circumstances, and that if he did, he would deal with me. Several days after that, a friend of mine told me Deneuve had been snooping for information about the Ghost."

His grand-mère shook her head, smiling slightly. "And knowing you as I have come to, mon chéri, I know that unconsciously, you were every inch the Ghost when you threw him out." She sat back in her chair, thinking. Frowning, she said, "Deneuve has to be blackmailing someone in a position of influence at the Comique. In order to install him as concertmaster with no audition, it must be one of the managers. I cannot see M. Courtois tolerating him unless he was told he had no choice."

She fell silent, drumming her fingers on the arm of her chair. After a moment, she smiled wickedly. "Leave this to me, mes chéries. Leave this to me."

* * *

As they walked home from Eléonore's, Veronique asked, "What do you think she meant, Erik? Do you have any idea what she plans to do?"

He blew out a deep breath. "No, chaton, and quite frankly, that worries me. We cannot say with complete certainty how Deneuve may react." I believe I will pay ma chère grand-mère another visit tomorrow, he thought. Aloud, he asked, "Do I dare inquire about the wedding preparations?"

Playfully she slapped his shoulder. "Giselle and Elisabeth and I are working on my dress, and some curtains for the windows. We really should measure the parlor and the bedroom and then go shopping for some furniture."

The word 'shopping' sent a shudder through Erik and he asked, "Is it absolutely necessary for me to go along? I will give you some money, chaton, and you can buy whatever we need."

She gave him a stern look and shook her head. "You must come with me," she said. "You will also be using this furniture for years, and I do not intend to listen to your complaints about it, if I buy something you don't like."

"I don't have a choice about this, do I?" When she shook her head 'no', he sighed.

* * *

The next week seemed to pass on winged feet. Erik reluctantly went shopping with Veronique, and grudgingly admitted afterward that the experience had not been as horrible as he had feared it would be. That admission earned him an irritated look. Although he had not been permitted to see it, Veronique's dress was finished and hanging in her closet.

Earlier that day they had helped Elisabeth hang the curtains in their house. Now Erik and Veronique stood in the parlor, her furniture and what they had purchased piled around them in disarray. "Oh, where to begin?" she sighed.

Giselle entered with Messrs. Montaigne and Chermont. "First, we need to unroll the rug and let it flatten out a bit, before we set the furniture on it," she told them. It took all three men, considerable grunting and some cursing before the Persian rug lay on the parlor floor. In the meantime, the cook stove had arrived and the women disappeared into the kitchen to direct the workmen.

After a couple of hours of shifting boxes, filling cupboards and arranging furniture, Giselle called a halt. "I am going home to finish dinner," she said, wiping her brow.

Erik and Veronique both collapsed on the sofa. Several moments of silence passed then Veronique said, "I really should go help her, I suppose." She tried to stand, only to discover her legs would not quite support her, and she sank back down next to Erik. "After I rest a moment," she decided.

Lying back so that his head rested on the arm of the sofa, he pulled her next to him. She sighed and laid her head on his shoulder. One hand began to massage the muscles of her neck and shoulders and she murmured appreciatively, "Oh, that feels good." Within minutes she was sound asleep, her breath a soft puff against his throat.

He shifted a bit, getting more comfortable, absently rubbing his hand up and down her arm. How much my life has changed in the last six months, he thought in wonder. In a week's time, I will be married—and _not_ to Christine. He gazed down at the woman sleeping in his arms and felt his heart squeeze. With a sigh he laid his head back and he closed his eyes. We will go help Giselle . . . in a moment . . .

* * *

Erik woke with a jolt some time later with Veronique's hand inside his shirt, caressing his chest. Her tongue was doing sinful things to his ear and he swallowed hard.

"Ah, you are awake," she whispered, shifting to nibble down his neck and shoulder. Her fingertips danced over one of his nipples and he gasped.

"Veronique, what are you doing?" he croaked, gasping again when her hand slid down to his hip and then his thigh. He felt her breasts pushing against his chest and he broke out in a sweat.

"Trying to seduce you," she murmured. "Am I succeeding?" She moved her hand to the front of his trousers, covering the bulge she found there. He gave a strangled cry and she smiled. His eyes had an unfocused look and he muttered in a language she didn't understand.

Suddenly he reversed their positions, his hand sliding up under her skirt. The palm of his hand skimmed the length of her leg, leaving gooseflesh in its wake. "How beautiful you are, mon coeur," he said, his hand trailing across her hip. "And not just your face," he added, dropping kisses on her forehead and cheeks. "But all of you, ma chérie, your heart and your soul."

A flush of color appeared on her cheeks as she reached up and slid her hand inside his shirt along his shoulder. "You would not say that, if you knew what I was thinking," she muttered.

Erik laughed softly. "Oh, I can tell exactly what you're thinking, chaton. You want to go upstairs and take up where we left off, the day Eléonore and Giselle interrupted us." She nodded eagerly and tried to sit up. When he didn't move, she pushed at him until he got to his feet and held out his hand.

"Oh, Erik, I never thought you would agree!" She pulled herself up and towing him behind her, she managed to get into the hall before he planted his feet and refused to move.

"Veronique, no." With just those two soft words, the spirit seemed to drain out of her and she stared at the floor, her shoulders slumping. He pulled her against his chest, sighing when she wound her arms around his waist. "It's just a few more days, ma petite. They will fly by, just as these past two weeks have done." Leaning back, he tipped her chin up and stared into big green eyes brimming with tears. "My saying 'no' doesn't mean I don't love you, chérie, or that I don't want to . . . It just means I want everything to be perfect. And that means waiting until our wedding night."

* * *

Eléonore knocked sharply on the door of the managers' office at the Opéra-Comique. A gruff voice bade her enter, and she swept in, closing the door tightly behind her. "Bonsoir, M. Laclede," she said.

The senior manager's head jerked up at the sound of her voice, and immediately he stood and came around his desk. "Madame Duvalier, to what do I owe the honor of your visit?" He seated her and took the chair next to her.

For a long moment, she did not speak. Then she looked directly into M. Laclede's eyes and said, "Which one of you is Deneuve blackmailing?"

Laclede's eyebrows shot up. "Blackmail? What are you talking about, Madame?"

"Come now, Monsieur. You are aware that I know more about music and orchestras than the average patron. This imbécile Deneuve barely knows how to drag the bow across the strings without screeching." Eléonore gave him a hard look. "Thanks to my late husband, I also know M. Courtois fairly well, and he would not tolerate this bouffon unless he had been ordered to do so."

Laclede rose and went to the cabinet that held his employee files. After looking through them all twice, he muttered, "Nom du Ciel! There is nothing here on Deneuve." Turning back to Eléonore, he said, "It appears that I have been played for a fool. Please, Madame, tell me what you know."


	29. Chapter 29

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: At long last, the wedding... :-) **

Chapter Twenty-nine

When Laurent opened his folder of music two days later at rehearsal, a folded scrap of paper fluttered to the floor. Swiftly he scooped it up and stuffed it in his pocket. During a break an hour later, he pulled it out and glanced at it. It contained only the words "This afternoon" and an address. In case anyone was watching him, he shrugged and put the note back in his pocket.

Managing to contain his excitement, he retrieved the telegrams from his locked desk and proceeded to the address on the note. Erik met him at the door and invited him to the garden to meet Eléonore.

"Bonjour, M. Hebert," said Eléonore as Laurent bowed over her hand. "I am most pleased to meet you, especially since Erik tells me you have the proof that will help rid us of Deneuve's presence at the Comique."

"What an honor it is to meet you, Madame Duvalier. And on behalf of the musicians of the Opéra-Comique, please accept our heartfelt thanks for your assistance with our 'cause'." Laurent handed her a large envelope. "These are the replies to our telegrams. I only hope they will be sufficient."

Eléonore read several of the wires before smiling at Erik and Laurent. "Oh, indeed, M. Hebert, I think these will do quite nicely." Claire appeared with a tray containing four glasses and a bottle of sherry. Eléonore poured everyone a drink. "Please, join me in a toast to the return of excellent music to the Comique."

* * *

The next afternoon

"I said, take your hands off me, you fils de putain!" The angry words carried through the silence of the corridor, followed immediately by the sharp crack of a hand striking flesh.

François Deneuve backed away from the ballet rat, holding his cheek. "You're going to regret that," he muttered and moved toward her. Suddenly his eyes widened as a hand clamped down on his shoulder and spun him around.

Laurent Hebert stood glaring at him, his fists clenched. "You're wanted in the managers' office, Deneuve." He waited until the concertmaster had straightened his coat before adding, "And if I ever catch you trying to molest any of the women here again, it will be the second-biggest mistake of your life."

Deneuve gave each of them an angry look and stalked off. He paused for a moment outside the door of the office then knocked twice. A voice bade him enter and he swung open the door to find the room filled with people. A lady was seated in front of the desk, and several men, including M. Courtois and some orchestra members, stood along the walls.

M. Laclede, the senior manager, pointed to the other chair in front of the desk. "Take a seat, Deneuve," he ordered. When the concertmaster had done so, Laclede said bluntly, "You are no longer employed by the Opéra-Comique, Monsieur."

Deneuve started to babble, unable to form a coherent sentence, and M. Laclede cut him off with an abrupt gesture. "This is not open for discussion. We have evidence that you are not qualified for the position, and these gentlemen," he indicated the orchestra members, "will also testify to that. M. Belette, who hired you, told us everything before he . . . killed himself."

"I demand to see this 'evidence'," Deneuve sneered. His hand trembling slightly, he reached into his pocket for his handkerchief and mopped his face. Clearly, the news of Belette's death had startled him.

"Certainement," said Laclede. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and pulled out several telegrams; he took the one on the top and proceeded to read it aloud. "This is from M. Delacroix at the Royal Conservatoire in The Hague—'François Deneuve was asked to leave the Conservatoire one month after he arrived, by a unanimous vote of his instructors. He did not show any aptitude for music whatsoever, and most certainly did not receive a diploma from our institution.' " He waved the other telegrams. "These are all of a similar nature."

The lady spoke. "The gentlemen here who you probably do not recognize are patrons of the Comique, as am I. We have signed a petition asking for your removal, stating we will withdraw our support if you are not relieved of your 'duties' immediately. This would mean a loss of revenue of approximately fifty thousand francs, something I do not believe the Opéra-Comique can withstand at this time."

The color drained from Deneuve's face and he slumped in the chair. The lady leaned forward and spoke in a voice audible only to the two of them. "Oh, and by the way, Monsieur. I have been told that the men working on the demolition of the Opéra Populaire pulled a charred body from the ruins a few days ago. It was found well below street level, and is believed to be the body of the Opera Ghost." The woman gave him a pointed look and he swallowed hard. "I understand there is to be an announcement regarding the discovery in tomorrow's newspaper." Deneuve nodded that he understood, and she leaned back in her chair.

Laclede spoke again. "You will be escorted from the premises within the hour, Deneuve. And be warned—if any orchestra should contact us in the future about you, we will tell them the brutal, honest truth. I would suggest that you not embarrass yourself further."

Deneuve pushed unsteadily to his feet and made his way to the door. Just as he reached for the doorknob, Laclede said, "One more thing to remember, Deneuve. We—any of us here—can do you far more damage than you could to us." He nodded and one of the orchestra members moved to escort Deneuve out. M. Courtois went with them.

A collective sigh came from the remaining musicians, making Laclede and the others smile. "Messieurs, Madame, I cannot thank you enough for what you have done. I can assure you that changes in administrative policy will be forthcoming immediately," Laclede told them. "To that end, might I have a private word with you, Mme. Duvalier?"

* * *

"And so, Deneuve is gone," Eléonore said with a smile. She had come to Giselle's to share the good news and found Erik moving his clothing and belongings over to the new house. "I am quite relieved, I must say, both for you and Veronique, and the opera, of course." She sat back on the sofa in Erik and Veronique's parlor and folded her hands in her lap.

"Merci, Eléonore, for all your help." Erik leaned over and kissed her on the cheek. "Somehow I sense that you enjoyed all this tremendously," he added, and she nodded.

"I did indeed," she said, "and in fact, M. Lambeau has offered me a position of sorts at the Comique." Explaining that her new duties would mostly involve screening applicants, she said, "At last I will be able to use the knowledge that I acquired from listening to Gérard and his friends."

Erik frowned at the mention of his grandfather, and she patted his hand. "He was not the best of husbands, or of fathers, but he was an excellent musician, chéri. I'm certain that he had no idea I was listening while he and his cronies discussed and argued about music, but it was truly an education in itself," she said. "Now, I can put that to good use." She paused a moment then asked, "Is everything ready for tomorrow?"

He gave her a wry smile. "_**I**_ am ready for tomorrow," he said. Much more than I intend to admit to you! "Giselle and Elisabeth have been baking for days. It smelled wonderful, but they flatly refused to let me taste anything. Ran me out of the kitchen, as a matter of fact."

With a chuckle, Eléonore rose and went to the door. "Then I shall see you tomorrow afternoon, at one o'clock."

* * *

The priest arrived a few minutes early, amidst a flurry of final preparations. He joined Erik and M. Bertrand in the parlor, trying to keep out of the way of the women. The three engaged in small talk for a few moments, M. Bertrand and Père Jean finding a common interest in gardening.

When a knock sounded on the door, Erik went to answer it. His grand-mère and Claire had arrived, and he took them in to meet M. Bertrand and the priest. After the introductions, the ladies excused themselves to go upstairs and see Veronique. Erik took the opportunity to escape to the kitchen and stood staring out the window. Did you feel this way, Maman? he wondered. Excited and frightened at the same time? For an instant he felt the touch of her lips on his scarred cheek, and brought his hand up to rub the spot gently.

Upstairs, Giselle and Elisabeth were helping Veronique into her undergarments and dress. Eléonore and Claire arrived as they were fussing with the fall of the skirt. "Oh, ma chère fille," said Eleonore softly. "Comme c'est belle." Dabbing her eyes, she said, "I would be honored if you carried this, chérie." She reached into her reticule and brought out a lace-edged handkerchief. "It belonged to Erik's maman."

Veronique held out her hand, blinking back tears. "Truly, Grand-mère, I am the one who is honored," she whispered. They embraced then stepped apart as the clock downstairs chimed once.

Eléonore, Claire and Elisabeth gave the bride a kiss on the cheek and left the room. Giselle fussed a bit more with the drape of the lace overskirt. "Bien," she said finally. She took Veronique by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. "You are at the beginning of a wonderful part of your life, ma chérie. You and Erik will deal well with life and with each other." With that, she kissed the girl on both cheeks and said, "Time to get married."

Slowly Veronique descended the staircase, her heart nearly bursting with love when she saw M. Bertrand waiting for her at the bottom. He blinked back tears and offered his arm to her. "Be happy, chérie," he said softly as they entered the parlor. Veronique muffled a gasp when she saw Erik standing in front of the fireplace. Tall, muscular, resplendent in a black suit, silver waistcoat, stark white shirt and cravat, the sight of him made her already dry mouth go even drier.

Erik turned as he heard them enter, and his heart began to pound. Sainte Mère, how beautiful she is! The ivory dress flowed around her as she walked, and somehow it brought out golden highlights in her hair. The only jewelry she wore was her mother's gold cross, and a pair of diamond and emerald earrings he had found to match her engagement ring. Her hair was arranged loosely on top of her head, with a few curls framing her face.

M. Bertrand took her hand and gave it to Erik. They faced the priest and a movement caught Erik's eye. Turning his head slightly, he saw Samson and Marguerite sneak into the parlor from the kitchen. He squeezed Veronique's hand and when she looked at him, he inclined his head toward the cats. She choked back a laugh as the priest began to speak.

Within moments, they were wed. When they had exchanged gold rings, Giselle and M. Bertrand held the carré over their heads. "What God has joined together, let no man put asunder," murmured Père Jean. Making the sign of the cross, he blessed them and said, "You may kiss your bride, Erik."

He did so, with enthusiasm, until Giselle said, "All right, that's enough of that. You have all night ahead of you." Everyone laughed, including the bride and groom, and they led the way to the dining room. On the table sat a beautiful croquembouche, along with tiny sandwiches, coffee and a bottle of champagne, cooling in a silver bucket.

Giselle and Elisabeth poured everyone but André a glass of champagne and M. Bertrand raised his with a smile. "I would like to toast the happy couple," he said. "My first position after leaving the Conservatoire was with a small chamber orchestra in Marseilles. I became good friends with one of the woodwind players, a Spaniard. He taught me a traditional Spanish toast, which I believe is quite appropriate for our newlyweds. Salud, amor, y dinero." He tipped his glass toward the bride and groom. "That means 'health, love and wealth'."

The others murmured "Here, here" and clinked glasses with each other as Erik and Veronique entwined their arms and drank.

Raising her glass, Eléonore spoke. "To my grandson and his bride." She blinked suddenly, her eyes awash in tears. "I never thought I would say those words," she whispered. Both Erik and Veronique slid an arm around her, and she held on tight.

Just then Samson meowed loudly, breaking the spell. Everyone laughed except Giselle, who peered under the table at him with a glare. "Samson, allez-vous-en!" she hissed, trying to shoo him out of the room. Staring at her impassively, he eased his bulk down on the floor, refusing to budge.

"Bah!" After several attempts, Giselle gave up on getting the big orange tom cat to leave. "I sincerely hope he moves next door with you," she said. "I wash my hands of him."

When the clock struck twice, Erik and Veronique took their leave of the guests to go to the magistrate's office for the civil part of the proceedings, accompanied by Giselle and M. Bertrand as their witnesses. On the way back to Giselle's, M. Bertrand asked, "Will you two be able to continue at Vuillaume's, now that you're married?"

Veronique looked at Erik and he nodded. "I've been thinking about teaching, beginners only, of course," she told them. "The extra downstairs room would be perfect." She squeezed Erik's hand. "I've been trying to persuade him to give lessons, also, but I have not convinced him . . . yet."

M. Bertrand chuckled. "A word of advice, Erik. Be wary when a woman tries to persuade you to do anything." Both Giselle and Veronique looked at him angrily, and he spread his hands as if in surrender. "I have found it is far easier on everyone if you simply capitulate at the beginning, and save yourself the bother."

"Merci, Monsieur. I will do my best to remember that in the future." Erik's voice quivered with suppressed laughter, and Veronique nudged him with her elbow.

The taxi stopped in front of Giselle's and M. Bertrand helped her alight, then Erik followed, extending his hand to Veronique. A cheer went up from the group gathered on the lawn and they showered the newlyweds with rice and birdseed.

Scooping Veronique up in his arms, Erik dashed toward their house—and the solitude they had both been craving for weeks.

* * *

**A/N: I do apologize for leaving you here... but thought the wedding night deserved its own chapter... I hope you will agree, once you've read it... :-)**


	30. Chapter 30

**A Song in the Night**

**A/N: WARNING for sexual content! At long last, we come to the conclusion of our story... I hope you have enjoyed reading it. Many thanks to those who have been reading so faithfully and leaving reviews... :-)**

Chapter Thirty

To the accompaniment of cheers and applause, Erik carried Veronique up the front stairs of their home and across the threshold. Gently he set her on her feet and turned to lock the deadbolt that he had installed himself.

She snickered and he scooped her up in his arms with a grin, twirling around. "Now then, Madame Devereaux, shall we . . .?"

His bride of two hours slid her hand behind his head and pulled him to her for a long kiss. When they broke apart, Erik started up the stairs as quickly as possible. At the top, he strode into their bedroom and deposited her on the bed. "Je t'aime, mon coeur," he said, bending down to kiss her yet again.

Veronique looped her arms around his neck and pulled him down on top of her. Bracing himself on one arm, he stared at her, caressing her cheek with his thumb. "Erik?" she said softly, moaning as he kissed his way down her neck and along the lace at the edge of her bodice. When he didn't answer her, she grabbed his hair and tugged. "Help me out of this dress," she whispered.

Easing back, he offered his hand and helped her sit up. "Certainement, ma belle femme."

She presented her back to him and he began to work on the tiny buttons. Finally the dress gaped open and he pressed soft kisses on the nape of her neck and down her spine. Scooting to the edge of the bed, she stood and Erik attacked the remainder of the buttons. Soon the dress was held in place only by her hands at her shoulders. Veronique turned to face him and slowly allowed the dress to fall away.

"Sainte Mère!" Erik sucked in a breath at the sight of her in her fine lawn chemise and petticoats. When her hands went to the ribbons of her chemise, he stood and put his hands over hers. "Please, mon amour, allow me?" Slowly she nodded and he undid the knot, brushing the fabric aside with his fingertips, leaving her awash in goose bumps.

She moaned as her nipples peaked, hard and aching. They seemed to beg for his mouth and he took one, nipping it gently. Cupping the other breast in his free hand, his thumb dragged across the nipple again and again. She cried out and he smiled to himself.

Veronique's knees would no longer support her and she sagged in Erik's arms. Quickly he untied the tapes of her petticoats and helped her step out of them. Laying her on the bed, he shed his jacket, waistcoat, cravat and boots in short order. He started on the buttons of his shirt and she sat up and stopped him. "Turnabout is fair play," she murmured and he dropped his hands to his sides.

Slowly she pushed the buttons through their holes, watching his face as she did. After the third button, his eyes glazed over and she felt a tiny surge of triumph. Bending closer, she pressed kisses to the exposed skin of his chest, rubbing her nose in the soft patch of hair over his breastbone and inhaling the scent that was his alone. He hissed out a breath and she smiled.

Reaching behind her, he pulled the pins from her hair one by one. When the bronze-colored mass fell, he tunneled his hands into it and spread it over her shoulders. His hands slid down her arms and he tumbled them both to the bed. Quickly he stripped off his trousers and drawers, and turned to take his wife into his arms. Ridding her of her chemise and pantalets with her cooperation, he stopped and stared down at her. "Oh, ma belle," he murmured, skimming a hand over her breasts and down her stomach.

Reaching up, she cupped his scarred cheek. "Je t'aime, Erik," she whispered. He turned his head and kissed her palm. "Please, mon grand," she begged, "make me yours, once and for all?" Shifting slightly, she reached between them and took him in her hand.

He moaned and closed his eyes. "Oh, chaton," he breathed. His hand moved between her legs and she arched into his touch. Bending his head, he took one nipple in his mouth and laved it with his tongue, making her writhe in pleasure.

His fingers seemed to dance around the place where she needed him to touch her most, never getting to quite the right spot, never going far enough. Feeling as though she would explode, she thrust against his hand. "Now, Erik!" she cried. "Please, now!"

Her hand moved up and down his shaft with firm strokes, and he gritted his teeth against the sensations she unleashed in him. Kneeling between her legs, his hand now found wetness and that discovery nearly sent him over the edge. Slowly, so as not to cause her any more pain than necessary, he entered her. The combined moisture of their bodies eased the way a little, but in the back of his mind, he still feared hurting her.

Veronique inhaled sharply, and Erik froze. "Chérie? Are you all right?" Her eyes fluttered shut; her mouth moved but no sound emerged.

When he withdrew, she clutched his shoulders, her fingers digging into his flesh. "No!" she whimpered, and then cried out when he slid all the way into her. Staring up into his eyes, she saw her love reflected in them. She threaded her fingers through his dark hair, pulling his mouth down to hers. Their tongues dueled with each other, feinting and swirling.

Erik broke the kiss, gasping for breath. His hands covered her breasts as she rose up to meet his thrusts. With a final sobbing cry, she stiffened then went limp in his arms and he poured himself into her.

After a moment, he moved aside and looked down at his beautiful wife. Whispering, "Je t'aime," he pressed a kiss to her forehead. With a shaky laugh, he added, "I'm not certain my legs will support me, chaton, or I would bring you a damp cloth."

Sleepily, she replied, "I can wait for a bit," and snuggled next to him. She slid her arm across his chest and sighed. Several seconds passed and then Veronique giggled. "At least this time we didn't have to worry about being interrupted."

Erik grinned as he caressed her hip and leg, delighted by the goose bumps that appeared as he did. "And it was well worth the wait, was it not?" he asked. Veronique didn't reply immediately and he looked at her, faintly concerned. "Wasn't it, ma belle?"

Her hand trailed across his chest, following the pattern of the hair growth. "Mmm, yes, I suppose," she murmured.

"You suppose?" he repeated. With a playful growl he loomed over her. "We'll have to improve on that, Madame." He reached for her, and she shrieked when he began to tickle her mercilessly.

"Erik, stop!" she cried, nearly helpless with laughter, tears trickling down her cheeks. Suddenly he did, and she stared up at him, seeing his emotions flit across his face: fear, longing, doubt. "Oh, mon mari, mon amour," she whispered, cupping his face in her hands. "I will love you as long as I live, and even beyond that, for all time."

Sighing, he lowered his head and kissed her softly. She looped her arms around his neck and returned his kiss fervently, maneuvering so that she lay atop him. Breaking the kiss, she put her head on his shoulder, delighting in the feel of the warm flesh and hard muscles beneath her. When his hand caressed her back and slid down to cup her bottom, she squirmed against him. "So," she murmured, "you are ready to do this again?"

"What do you think?" he replied, moving his hips slightly.

Veronique smiled, sitting up to straddle him. She trailed her fingertips down his chest, taking note of each bulge of pectoral muscle and counting a couple of ribs, which made Erik yelp and grab her hands. With an impish grin, she leaned forward, letting the tips of her breasts brush his chest. They both moaned as she took him inside her again; she was ready this time for the sensation of being filled by him.

Or so she thought. It was the same, and yet different. As she moved up and down, bringing them both closer to fulfillment, Erik matched her movements and soon clutched her hips to hold her still. "No," she whispered, straining to reach the peak she felt building inside her.

"Wait," he said softly, and watched her as he thrust again. Her head back, she cried out as the wave hit and she convulsed around him. His own completion came seconds later, and she collapsed on top of him.

After a few moments, she stirred. "That was . . . wonderful," she sighed. "And yes, well worth waiting for." When Erik sat up with her in his arms, she asked sleepily, "Where are we going?"

"To the water closet, chaton. I thought you might like a bath." He set her on her feet next to the tub and reached for the spigots. She swayed and he snaked an arm around her waist.

"Too tired," she muttered and fell against him.

He settled for using a damp cloth instead and carried her back to bed. Climbing in beside her, he spooned her against his chest and wrapped an arm around her. As an afterthought, he pulled the sheet up to cover them. They were both asleep within seconds.

* * *

Some time later Veronique awoke, alone in the bed. Sitting up, she saw that it was dark outside. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and saw a beautiful emerald green silk gown lying across the chair. With a wide smile she put it on. It had a very low neckline, and the back was practically non-existent. The fabric slid over her skin, raising goose bumps . . . just like the touch of his fingers. Veronique blushed at her reflection in the tall mirror in the corner.

He has already seen all of you, the voice in her head chided her. It's much too late to be embarrassed now.

Ignoring the voice, she stepped out into the hallway—and heard music. She crept downstairs and peeked into the vacant room. Erik stood by the window, dressed only in his trousers, playing a song she had never heard before. Instinctively she knew he had composed it; its melody was lyrical and haunting at the same time.

His violin seemed to sob, and she felt tears gathering in her eyes. Then within a few measures, the tune became joyful and soared, bringing a smile to her face. When the last note had faded away, she sighed, and Erik turned around. He held out a hand to her, and she rushed across the room and into his arms.

"It was beautiful," she told him, her voice muffled against his chest.

Dropping a kiss on her tousled hair, he said, "I wrote it for you, chérie."

A soft sound drew their eyes to the window. On the ledge sat Samson, looking extremely irritated at being on the outside looking in. With a laugh, Erik cranked open the window and the fat orange cat leaped to the floor. "I see you found us, mon ami," said Erik as the cat stomped off in the direction of the kitchen. "You may not find much to eat, chat gros," he called, grinning when the bushy tail swished angrily.

Veronique tugged on her husband's arm. "He is not the only one to have found us," she said, pointing to the window.

Marguerite sat outside in the same spot, looking quite forlorn, and Erik leaned out and carefully picked her up. "Bienvenue, chérie," he crooned, and gave her a kiss behind her ear. Setting her on the floor, he watched as she sniffed and explored the room. When Veronique chuckled, he looked at her.

"I wonder how soon Giselle and Eléonore will be coming around, to see how we are faring," she said.

"They had damn well better not come around any time soon," he muttered. "You'd think they would understand about a couple needing their privacy."

"Speaking of privacy," Veronique began, only to be interrupted by the loud growling of her stomach.

Her husband slid an arm around her waist, caressing her through the thin fabric. "I do hope we have some food in the kitchen," he said. "After all, we need to keep up our strength."

* * *

Nine and a half months later, Erik and Veronique were blessed with a daughter. Named for her grandmothers, Catharine Josette came into the world squalling at the top of her lungs. She had a small dimple on her right cheek; in later years, she proudly insisted it was where her grand-père Erik Vangilder had kissed her before she was born. Soon she was the older sister to two brothers, Antoine and Guillaume, who were the bane of her existence until they went away to university.

Erik continued to work at Vuillaume's and also took private violin students, after some coercion from Veronique. She taught the cello to a few beginning students, all the while continuing her advanced studies under Erik's tutelage. When the children were older, she boldly auditioned for a position in the orchestra at the Opéra-Comique and became their assistant principal cellist. It was a position she held for many years.

Erik died peacefully in his sleep at the age of 68, with Veronique and their children and grandchildren at his side. The very same day, a new serial began in Le Gaulois. Written by Gaston Leroux, it was titled Le Fantôme de l'Opéra.

* * *

ma belle femme-- my beautiful wife

mon mari-- my husband

And just in case anyone was wondering, yes, the cats and their descendants remained very important members of the family... ;-)


End file.
